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EAYELLINGS 


0 


FROM THE WEB OF LIFE. 


GRANDFATHER G^NWAY. 

|a/wa/i CcuwvMn^ 


The web of our life Is of a mingled yarn. 

Shakspeabk. 



NEW YORK: 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 
MONTREAL: 


COB. NOTBE DAME AND ST. FBANCIS XAVIEB STBEET. 

jgaj 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
Charles James Cannon, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 


J 


flaself aii^r fla MuL 


I AM an old man — as the name by which I am generally known 
would imply — and something of an invalid ; and, as a necessary 
consequence, have become almost a prisoner to my own room. 
Age and infirmity seemed to me, at first, very great evils, and I 
fretted beneath their infliction. My habits had been active, and 
my mind constantly engrossed in the pursuits in which I was en- 
gaged, and to be deprived at once of my customary exercise, and 
the business which had filled my mind to the exclusion of every- 
thing like serious thought, was certainly enough to try the patience 
of one who had very few pretensions to the character of a philoso- 
pher. But time works wonders. The confinement which — a little 
more than seven years ago — was hardly to be endured, has become 
positively pleasant to me, and much to be preferred to the busy, 
bustling life I had led till then, and I am now so accustomed to my 
rheumatism that I should be quite lost without it, for, besides 
putting me into undisputed possession of the easiest chair in the 
house, it affords an excellent subject for conversation — when every- 
thing else is exhausted. 

When I firet gave up business, my great want was occupation, I 
had read little but the newspapers, and the small type in which 
they were then beginning to print them — though the younger of 
my grand-daughters pretended there had been no change — rendered 
them almost useless to me, and, when I did succeed in mastering 
their contents, they served rather to irritate than to soothe, for 


vm 


MYSELF 'AND MY WOKK. 


they constantly reminded me of scenes and occupatipns which 
I, alas! was never more to know; and so I banished them from 
my room. 

I then began a course of historical reading. Of this, however, I 
very soon tired. History has been called “Philosophy teaching by 
example.” But, as my object was amusement, and not instruction, 
I had not patience to toil along the barren road of tiresome disser- 
tation, and dry generalities, for the sake of the unripe fruit that was 
to be gathered at the end of it. What the world calls History 
seemed to me little better than romance, and romance too of the 
dullest kind, in which the heroes and heroines were simply the 
embodiments of the odd fancies and peculiar prejudices of its 
writers, tricked out in the quaint costume of a bygone age, 
and bearing the names of certain persons who lived and loved, 
and suffered and died “a long time ago;” beings doubtless very 
much like ourselves — neither as good nor as bad as they are made 
to appear. 

I next tried Philosophy. But, although she had been represented 
as transcendantly beautiful — is not Philosophy feminine? — she had 
either been greatly overri^ted, or my sight had become far worse 
than I thought, for, upon the word of an honest man, I did not find 
her even tolerably comely. Poetry was as little to my taste as 
Philosophy. Or, to speak more correctly, my taste for poetry was 
not perhaps of the right sort ; for I could not, for the life of me, tell 
in what the “Iliad” was superior to “Chevy Chase;” I certainly 
preferred “Tam o’ Shanter” to the “Inferno,” and, like Irving’s 
General, I was sure to fall asleep over the “Fairy Queen.” 

Yet the fault, after all, was neither in the historian, the philoso- 
pher, nor the poet. That lay nearer home. I had fancied, because 
I had had a boyish acquaintance with Homer and Virgil, with 
whom, however, I had long ceased to be on speaking terms ; could 
read and write two or three modern languages, and had always 
commanded a certain degree of respect upon ’Change, that I was 
sufficiently educated to find in books a compensation for the 
pleasures of active life I was forced to give up. But in this I was 
mistaken. Books, to be really useful to us in age, must be made the 
chosen companions of our youth, and I, imfortunately, knew little 
of them until I had travelled pretty far down the hill of life, and 


MYSELF AND MY WORK. 


ix 


then they seemed determined to revenge themselves upon me for 
my long neglect, for they positively refused to lend me the aid I 
stood so much in need of. 

But, besides religion;— It is Pope, I believe, who says, that 
“ Beads and prayer books are the toys of age.” Had the little cynic 
better known their use he would not have called them “ toys.” But, 
besides religion, as I said, I had still one resource against the 
weariness of idleness that threatened to devour me. I had always 
been, and still am fond of the society of the young. There is 
something so refreshing to the jaded mind in the purity of feeling 
gushing up from the heart, and flowing from the lips of those un- 
hackneyed in the ways of the world, that I have at all times found 
pleasure in the conversation of persons of this description ; and, in 
return, I suppose, for the indulgence with which I regard them, 
they have never failed to evince a decided partiality for my com- 
pany. And in this I have found my advantage. My daughter’s 
family is altogether a most pleasant one, and her girls two of the 
very best in the world; yet, for all that, my evenings would be 
dull enough occasionally, but for the visits of Max Kopner and 
Frank Conway — two fine young fellow.s, whose fathers I knew 
when I was a boy, and whom I have known since the}^ were as high 
as my knee — who seldom fail to drop in two . or three times a week, 
and, by relating the gossip of the day, and discussing with Mrs. 
Eganton, my daughter — a woman of rare qualities, but who, from 
her early widowhood, has become almost as much a recluse as 
myself — and the girls, who go but little into societ}’-, everything 
connected with literature and the arts, have not only given me 
pleasure at the time, but supplied me with a fund of inforaiation 
that I could not otherwise have easily acquired. 

But the visits of these lads have resulted in something better 
than an hour’s amusement for an old invalid. They have afforded 
me, what is of infinitely greater value— actual occupation, the only 
food that can satisfy the hunger of the mind.. And thus it was : 

One of our party — Mrs. Eganton, I believe — suggested some time 
ago, that instead of taxing the good nature of Max and Frank, as 
we were in the habit of doing, by setting one or the other to read 
for us an hour or so of an evening, while«she and the girls sat at 
work, we should endeavor to supply the place of the tales to which 


X 


MYSELF AND MY WOEK. 


we had given more time and attention, than the talent with which 
they were written, or the lessons tliey were intended to convey, 
would entitle them to, by telling stories of our own, that should 
depend for their interest more upon the facts they contained than 
the inventive powers of their narrators. This suggestion met with 
the instant approval of every one, not excepting Anastasia, who is 
so little fond of the sound of her own voice, that I have never 
known her to volunteer an anecdote, repeat a bit of scandal, or 
even discuss the bad taste in dress of her most intimate friends ; 
and thereupon Kate, the younger of my grand-daughters — as mis- 
chievous a puss as ever frolicked at an old man’s fireside — proposed 
that lots should be drawn, to decide who was to take the lead in 
this new amusement, with the anticipation of which she seemed 
perfectly delighted. So cutting six slips of paper, of unequal 
lengths, all of which, except the ends that were held between a 
finger and thumb, she carefully concealed in her hand, she bade 
us draw, saying that whoever drew the shortest should tell the first 
story, when — as, I am inclined to suspect, was intended — the lot 
fell upon Max Kopner. 

And since — partly as an exercise of memory, and partly for want 
of something better to do — I liave written out, in my best hand, 
the stories in the order in which they were related — dividing them 
into chapters, or sections, pruning away occasional redundancies, 
and now and then adding such embellishments as I thought the 
nature of the narratives would admit; when, upon completing my 
self-imposed task, I found I had brought together materials enow 
to make a volume — in manuscript — of a most imposing appeai-ance, 
which, with the consent, if not entire approbation, of its authors, I 
resolved to put into print. 

But then a difficulty arose about the title we should bestow 
upon it, no two of us agreeing, for a long time, upon any one of the 
many that were proposed. Mrs. Eganton thought that “ Tales and 
Sketches” would be very appropriate, to which Frank Conway 
would have added, of “American Life.” Kate was for something 
more significant and high sounding, in which “Hearts” and “Mys- 
teries” should hold a conspicuous place, but to both these words 
Max Kopner had a decided objection, for he had seen them so often 
and 80 badly used that he had become sick of them, and would re- 


MYSELF AND MY WORK. 


XI 


commend instead, “Phases of Every Day Life.” I was for calling 
it “Thrums.” 

“‘Thrums,’” repeated Kate. “‘Thrums.’ What,” she asked, 
“ does that mean ?” 

“Tou know, my dear,” said I, “or rather you don’t know, as jmu 
are city bred, that thrums are the ends of warp, which are left after 
the web is woven.” 

“And are cut off, I suppose, and thrown away.” 

“ Cut off, certainly, but not thrown away — by economical people. 
When I was a boy — ” 

“That must have been a long time ago, grandpapa.” 

“ Yes, Kate, a long time ago ! Butj'^s 1 was saying, when I was 
a boy, and lived in the country with my parents — it was before we 
had factories among us — everything we wore in the family was 
carded, spun, and woven at home, and my good thrifty mother, who 
never allowed anything to go to loss — you will never be like your 
great-grandmother, Kate — used to make her little folk, white and 
black, sit down by the kitchen fire in the winter evenings, and tie 
together the thrums she had saved through the year, out of which 
she knitted mittens and comforters for the poor of the neigh- 
borhood.” 

“Yery praiseworthy it was, no doubt, of the good old lady,” said 
the minx, with a saucy smile; “yet I cannot see the peculiar fitness 
of ‘ Thrums’ as a title for our book.” 

“ Why, you stupid little thing,” said I, giving her a fillip on the 
cheek, “you must be blind not to see it. These stories, which to 
common observers — the Ingomars of the world — who want to know 
the use of everything, would seem as little worth as the thrums I 
have spoken of, yet when carefully collected, and tied together, as 
it were, by patient industry — ” 

“Would make good mittens and comforters, ha, grandpapa?” 

Every one seemed amused with the ridiculous turn she had given 
to the argument I was about to enter upon, and, notwithstanding 
the strong inclination I felt to give the jade a sound box on the 
ear, I could not help joining in the laugh that had been raised at 
my expense. 

Up to this time Anastasia had taken no part in the discussion; 
but being now appealed to, either to decide in favor of some one 


xii 


MYSELF AND MY WORK. 


of the titles proposed, or name a title herself, she answered, in her 
usual quiet way, 

“They are all Very good and appropriate, but, with the exception 
of grandpapa’s, a little hackneyed, and that, though admirable for 
its significance, I am afraid would not be generally understood. 
Would not,” she asked, “‘Ravellings from the Web of Life’ — a 
title which, I believe, has never been used— -obviate both these 
objections?” 

The question with which she concluded, was unanimously an- 
swered in the affirmative, and so, as “Ravellings from the Web 
OF Life,” shall these stories go down to generations yet un- 
thought of. 




MAX KOPNER’s story. 

Repentance is a grace, but it is one 
That grows upon deformity — fair child 
To an unsightly mother! 

Sheridan Knowles. 

WhejST I first came to New York, I took board in 
one of those fine old mansions in Greenwich-street, 
near the Battery, which, having even then departed 
considerably from their original condition, as resi- 
dences of our “merchant princes” and untitled nobi- 
lity, have since quite lost all claim to respectability 
as well as nationality, and degenerated into foreign 
boarding-houses of rather questionable character. 
Here I was taken ill ; and though my illness was not 
at any time thought serious, it was sufficient to keep 
me in the house for three mortal weeks, almost with- 
out companionship, and entirely without occupation 
of any kind ; for, as I was suffering from a slight in- 
flammation of the eyes, my physician would not per- 
mit me either to read or write. 

It was the first time I had ever been left to the 


14 


GUY KEYBERT. 


company of my own thoughts, and wretchedly dull 
company I found them, I do assure you ; for, as I had 
positively no knowledge of the world from observa- 
tion, and very little more from books, I had never, I 
may say, been taught to think, and my efforts now to 
do what Avas so entirely new to me, were so feeble 
and ill-directed, that I found them altogether useless 
or unsatisfactory, and was soon glad to relinquish 
them, and seek a temporary relief from the tedium 
of confinement and inactivit3?' in sleep. In fact, the 
stock of sleep I laid in during my short illness might, 
at a rough calculation, last a man of ordinary require- 
ments something like three months. 

But I could not sleep always, and, as a last resource 
against idleness — that dry-rot of the soul — I took to 
the laudable employment of noting the doings of my 
opposite neighbors, the occupants of one of a half- 
dozen small houses that had by some mischance been 
huddled together in the centre of a row of the highest 
pretensions. These were an old negro shoe-black and 
kis pretty yellow wife, who lived in the cellar; a 
pleasant, bustling old woman, about as high as a bar- 
rel and as thick as a hogshead, who kept a small shop 
on the first floor, the windows of which were filled, 
without much regard to order, with apples, cakes, and 
candies, pins, tapes, and matches, picture-books and 
toys, with other articles too numerous and various to 
particularize ; a fashionable dress' and cloak maker in 
the second story, whose sign, dangling from one of 
the windows by a cord, was imperfectly seen from my 
place of observation, through the withered branches 


GUY REYBERT. 


15 


of a sycamore, that had once thrown a pleasant shade 
upon the walk by which it was now uselessly encum- 
bered, and a strange sort of being who, day and night, 
sat at a window of the attic, busily writing at a small 
table, or with his head leaning sadly upon his hand. 

The negro and his wife served for a while to amuse 
me mightily. They evidently were, like too many of 
their betters, paired, but not matched. He was little, 
'^Id, and ugly — a monkey in every thing but one — 
and she a decidedly handsome woman of the largest 
type. As a matter of course, he was jealous of her 
— not, perhaps, altogether without cause — and their 
hourly quarrels kept the neighborhood in an uproar 
from morning until night, and sometimes until late at 
night, and drew in front of the cellar every idle tat- 
terdemalion who passed that way, much to the annoy- 
ance of the worthy Mrs. Classen, the fat old lady of 
the shop, with whose business they too often seriously 
interfered, by keeping at a distance the timid portion 
of her customers, who were among the genteeler chil- 
dren in that part of the street. 

But after a short time I tired of this happy couple, 
and then, for a day or two, took to watching the in^ 
goings and out-comings of the little customers of my 
fat. friend, and those who bestowed their patronage 
upon the fashionable dress and cloak maker in the 
second story. It was, however, a vain endeavor to 
find amusement in this long, and I was fast sinking 
back into hopeless listlessness, when I fortunately be- 
thought me of the lonely being I had seen in the 
attic. 


16 


GUY REYBEKT. 


And lonely indeed he wasl Kot a living, creature 
seemed ever to interrupt his employment, or rouse 
him from the long reveries into which he was so often 
sunk; but there he sat at his window, whenever I 
chanced to look across the street — at early morning, 
throughout the day, and far, far in the night — writing 
on, on, or buried in deep thought, and apparently 
neglectful of sleep and food, and indifferent to, or to- 
tally unconscious of, whatever was passing in the 
street below. My curiosity was greatly excited, and, 
injustice to myself, I will add, my pity too; for had 
not I for many days been a sufferer from loneliness ? 
and I longed to know something of this man, whose 
isolated condition must have given him a peculiar 
claim to the sympathy of his kind. But none of my 
inquiries about him received a satisfactory answer. 
My landlady knew nothing of the people over the 
way. She kept a boy in the house to clean her gen- 
tlemen’s boots and shoes ; never bought any thing of 
the old woman, except now and then a paper of pins, 
or something of that kind ; and had her dresses made 
in Park Place ; so, of course, she could not know any 
•thing about them. And Belinda — whose name I have 
since learned was Bridget — the girl who waited upon 
me during my illness, although she seemed to know 
every one else from Eector-street to the Battery, knew 
nothing of the only person in whom at that time I 
felt any interest. 

My health being reestablished, and the inflamma- 
tion of my eyes entirely removed, I Avas allowed to 
return to business, and for several days the sight of 


GUY REYBERT. 


17 


familiar scenes, and the performance of the duties of 
my situation, drove the lonely occupant of the garret 
quite out of my head ; and I should probably have 
forgotten in a little while that such a being had ever 
existed, but for a report which reached me at break- 
fast one morning, that a man had just been found 
dead in the house opposite. 

I started up and hurried across the street, and pen- 
etrating—not, however, without considerable difficul- 
ty — the living mass that blocked up the walk, and 
filled the stoop^ the entry, and the stairs, worked my 
way up to the room where the dead man, like one in 
a pleasant sleep, was lying on a straw mattress upon 
the floor, decently wrapped in a dressing-gown of 
some dark stuff, that had evidently seen much ser- 
vice. 

He was apparently not more than thirty-five, and, 
notwithstanding its emaciation, his face, even in the 
rigidity of death, would have been called handsome. 
His hair, of a light brown, intermingled with gray, 
that had become quite thin at the temples, was long, 
and so was his thick, manly beard, both of which 
curled a good deal ; and his hands, now folded meekly 
upon his breast, would in size have satisfied the fas- 
tidiousness of a Byron. To a black cord about his 
neck was attached a locket of no great value, con- 
taining two curls of soft fair hair, but of different 
shades ; on the little finger of his left hand was a 
plain gold ring, and by his side lay a large wooden 
crucifix, on which was represented, with painful dis- 
tinctness, the mortal agony of a dying Saviour. 


18 


GUY REYBERT. 


These things I noticed before the Coroner had com- 
pleted his jury, after which I learned what follows 
from the testimony of Mrs. Classen, whose tenant he 
had been for something more than a year. 

The room had been taken and handsomely fur- 
nished by an elderly lady for an invalid friend, whom 
she brought the next day in a carriage, but who re- 
fused to occupy it until all the furniture, except the 
mattress, a table, two chairs, a common glass lamp, 
and two or three other articles of positive use, was 
removed. He then entered into possession ; and from 
that hour until the present had never been known to 
pass the street door, but commissioned Mrs. Classen 
to procure for him whatever he wanted, which, how- 
ever, was not much — his bread and water — his only 
sustenance — pens, ink, and paper, and oil for his lamp, 
and whom he paid very liberally for her trouble. Nor 
did he receive any visitors except the lady already 
spoken of, who brought papers for him to copy, and 
came and took them away, and a small, thin old gen- 
tleman, who spoke very bad English, that had been 
to see him two or three times. He was a strange be- 
ing, the old woman thought, living up there all alone, 
without the company of a fire even in the coldest 
weather, yet very gentle, and always grateful for any 
little service that she did him, and she had come to 
like him almost as much as if he were her own son. 

“ Every morning,” said the kind old creature, “I 
used to come up to see if he wanted any thing, and 
when I knocked at the door he would open it, just a 
little, and tell me whether he did or not. At other 


GUY REYBERT. 


19 


times he rang if he wanted me. Yesterday morning, 
as usual, I came and knocked, but as he took no no- 
tice, I thought he might be still asleep, and so went 
down again very softly for fear of disturbing him. 
But when I found upon knocking this morning that 
he did not open the door, I thought I would open it 
myself, for it was never locked, and take a peep in- 
side, when, behold ! I saw him lying just as he is now. 
At first I thought he might be asleep ; but, upon 
looking more closely, saw that he was dead, and I 
shall never forgive myself for not coming in yester- 
day, when, perhaps, he was still alive, and might, by 
a little timely assistance, have been saved from death 
for many a day to come.” 

I was much relieved by this account, and inwardly 
gave thanks to Heaven, that this poor wretch, weary 
as he must have been of existence, had not by his own 
act anticipated the time of his release, but had, accord- 
ing to the verdict of the Coroner’s jury, “Died by the 
visitation of God.” 

The lady spoken of by Mrs. Classen having been 
sent* for, now arrived. She exhibited neither surprise 
nor very deep sorrow, but only that decent’ serious- 
ness which is always due to the presence of death ; 
and as soon as the duty of the Coroner was performed, 
requested all present to withdraw. We did so; and 
the moment we were fairly outside of the door, she 
locked herself and the old woman in with the corpse, 
and admitted no one for the rest of the day but the 
undertaker and his men. At a very early hour the 
next morning a hearse and carriage were seen in front 


20 


GUY REYBERT. 


of Mrs. Classen’s shop; a plain coffin was brought 
out and placed in the former, followed by the two 
women, who were handed into the latter, and the 
funeral of the poor solitary moved on, and was soon 
out of sight of the few then astir in the neighbor- 
hood. 

What I had learned served only as a whet, rather 
than a full meal, to my curiosity, and I was glad of 
the excuse afforded me two or three da3^s after, by a 
bill on the house for “A room to let,” of calling upon 
Mrs. Classen, from whom I hoped to gather some fur- 
ther information. And so I did, but in a way I little 
expected ; for upon going up to look at the room, I 
saw some written sheets of paper lying loosely upon 
a table in the corner, which she said the friend of her 
late tenant had given her to kindle the fire with, and 
pretending to want them to line a box, I bought them 
of her for a couple of shillings, and found upon ex- 
amination, that besides some spoiled copies of law 
papers, rough drafts of poems and scenes of a tragedy, 
they consisted of the leaves entire of a story, which 
was doubtless that of the writer himself. 


GUY REYBEKT. 


21 


I. 

THE KEY NOTE. 

’Tis niglit ; — ;deep night. The streets are empty ; 
and no sound — save that of the wind rustling the few- 
half dead leaves, which still cling, with the tenacity 
of human love, to the branches of the one poor lone 
tree in front of my dwelling — breaks the slumberous 
silence that weighs on all around. The cold autum- 
nal moon is sailing slowly through a sea of clouds ; 
— a sea that seems almost without ebb or flow, so 
sluggishly it moves ; — and only at distant intervals 
does she cast a ray of melancholy light into the dull 
old chamber in which I am sitting, in utter loneliness 
and desolation of heart! And thus have I — day 
after day, and night after night — for weary, weary 
months, sat prayerfully waiting the coming of Him 
who alone can sunder the chains that bind me to the 
earth, and enable my spirit to mount above where 
They are now abiding. And yet he comes not. I 
thought I heard him near when the winds of March 
shook this old house until it rocked to its foundation. 
But no. And though the frequent and heavy show- 
ers of April, and the cold rains of Ma}^ that drenched 
the earth, and swelled the rivers until they overflowed 
their banks, brought him to many a hearth where his 


22 


GUY REYBERT. 


presence was acknowledged with tears and lamenta- 
tions, yet here, where he would have been most wel- 
come, he came not. 

ISTor yet did he come with the summer ; — a summer 
in w^hich the Pestilence, like an army flushed with 
victory, rioted in our streets, striking down, in the 
midst of friends and dear relations, bold youth and 
lusty manhood and radiant beauty, while I, whose 
day of usefulness is past, who have no claim upon 
the kindness of a living creature, w^ho have not even 
a dog that loves me, whose heart is withered ere my 
head has borne the blossoms of age, have been passed 
by unharmed. Unharmed? Ah, no, — unblest! 
Death will not have me of his company. But I will 
wait, and while I do so, let me, as some atonement 
for the follies and crimes I have committed, lay bare 
the secrets of my heart, and show, by the sketch of a 
life of much suffering, although of few vicissitudes, 
how little it is in the power of man, when once he 
has opened the floodgates of evil within him, to stem 
the torrent of passion that will then set in upon him. 
He alone can do that who gave to the seas their 
bounds, and hushed with a word the tumult of winds 
and waves. 

But, before I proceed with my story, let me be per- 
fectly understood. I do not think I was of necessity 
a monster. I do not claim to have been differently 
constituted from other men ; that my temptations 
have been greater than theirs, or my strength to re- 
sist them less; although the time has been when I 
thought otherwise. When writhing under the lash of 


GUY REYBERT. 


23 


an avenging conscience, and using the language of 
the first murderer — “ My punishment is greater than 
I can bear” — I have added, in a spirit of rebellion 
against the justice of Heaven, “and more than I 
have deserved, for, in yielding to my evil propensities, 
I did only that which it was not in my power not to 
do.” I am wiser now; and acknowledge with a 
bowed and chastened heart, that all the errors and 
sufferings of my life have sprung — not from any 
weakness peculiar to my nature — but from a foolish, 
contempt of danger, and an undue estimation of my 
own strength. And there are not many who have 
sinned, that could not — if they would take pains to 
know themselves well — make the same admission. 


II. 

THE OEPHAN. 

• 

The summer of 18 — was not unlike that which is 
just past. Then, too, the Destroying Angel, but 
under a name different from that he lately bore, with 
fear for his precursor and death following where he 
passed, swept oveCiAhe city ; and almost every one 
that could, fled at his approach. But, beside the 
poor, who were unable to leave, a few of better faith 
or- stronger nerves, were content to remain; and 
among these was Sally Jessup, the keeper of a small 


24 


GUY REYBERT. 


retail shop in an obscure street, which was now so 
seldom trodden that the grass began to show itself 
among its broken pavements. She ha’d never been 
married.- But the state of “single blessedness” in 
which she had passed full fifty years of her life, un- 
favorable as it is supposed to be to the development 
of the kindlier feelings of her sex, had yet had no 
bad effect either upon her temper or her heart ; for 
she was uniformly cheerful, and no one was ever 
known to appeal to her sympathies in vain. This 
was proven in one instance, at least, at no trifling 
risk, and with a deal of inconvenience to herself. 

A little boy, his face blubbered with crying, al- 
though he knew not why he cried, came to her one 
morning in the midst of the pestilence, to tell her his 
father was dying, and that his mother begged she 
would come to her, if but for a moment ; and, with- 
out waiting to take counsel with prudence, or her 
fears, she went at once. But the man was already 
dead ; and the new-made widow was fast losing the 
consciousness of her great loss, in the delirium of 
feVer. 

“My boy! my poor, poor Guy!” exclaimed the 
dying woman, when, as the death-struggle' began, her 
reason became once more clear, “ what will become 
of him!” 

“ Don’t, Mrs. Reybert, dear, dc5Ti’t trouble yourself 
about the child,” said the kind-hearted spinster, who, 
with the devotion of a sister, had attended at the bed- 
side of the sufferer from the hour she had been sum- 
moned, “ for while Sally Jessup has bread to eat or a 


GUY REYBERT. 


25 


roof to shelter her, he shall not want a friend or a 
home.” 

She kept her word; and from that hour the orphan 
boy of her poor neighbors became the child of her 
adoption. I was that boy. But further than what I 
have told, I know nothing of my parents, who were 
always spoken of, however, by my protectress as very 
excellent people, who had never been so fortunate as 
they deserved to have been. The grounds for her be- 
lief in their worthiness and misfortunes I never knew. 
Perhaps she had not any ; and all the kind things she 
said of them might have been suggested only by her 
wish to gratify the pardonable vanity of one am- 
bitious of tracing his origin to a respectable, at least, 
if not a distinguished source. 


III. 

A WISH AND ITS REALIZATION. 

Sally Jessup was not a native of the city, and 
she never wearied — although not generally garrulous 
— when the business of the day was over, our frugal 
supper dispatched, and we sat cosily together by the 
fire in her neat little parlor, of talking of her girlish 
days and the pleasantness of her early home in the 
country; and what seemed to be the one cherished 
wish of her unambitious heart, was to rest in her old 
2 


26 


GUY REYBERT. 


age Tinder the roof which had sheltered her in in- 
fancy. This wish was at length gratified ; for finding 
that the house where she was born, and a few acres 
around it, which upon the death of her only brother 
had passed into the hands of strangers, were now for 
sale, she cheerfully parted with the hoardings of many 
years to make herself mistress of them, and returned, 
as she said, to lay her bones among her own people. 
But the gratification of this innocent and natural wish 
— the source, too, of much happiness to a heart most 
moderate in its desires — unimportant as it may seem 
to have been, was not without its effect upon the 
future of my fate, by diverting the current of my life 
from the course in which it would otherwise have 
flowed, had I been forced in my youth to mingle in 
the busy scenes of a crowded city. 

To one weary of or disgusted with the world, no 
retreat could have been better suited than the new 
home to which I was taken ivhen in — what I believe 
must have been — about my eleventh year. The 
house — a very old one for an American 'house — was, 
like most of its class, a plain wooden structure of a 
single story, with high-pointed roof and covered piaz- 
zas or stoops^ both front and rear, the whole width of 
the building, which for protection against the storms 
of winter and the intense heat of our northern sum- 
mers, had been built almost at the bottom of a deep 
hollow, formed by hills that seemed but younger 
members of the great “Green Mountain” family to 
which they belonged, and by which it was so hidden 
that, although within a quarter of a mile of a well- 


GUY REYBERT. 


27 


travelled turnpike, its existence by the wayfarer would 
never have been thought of. In the rear, and cover- 
ing the side of one of those hills, was an apple or- 
chard, many of the trees of which, though still vigor- 
ous, were beginning to show marks of age ; on one 
side was the garden, kept less for ornament than use ; 
on the other, the barn, the corn-crib, hen-roost, smoke- 
house, stye, &c. ; and in front of the unpretending 
mansion lay the few acres that constituted, what 
might be properly called, the farm of Sally Jessup. 

Yet, although every thing in reality about her 
home remained nearly as she had left it, thirty odd 
years before, nothing seemed to its mistress any longer 
the same. The hills that enclosed it had lost much 
of their grandeur; the orchard was less extensive, 
and the trees had a gnarled appearance and a look of 
old age ; the mulberry tree in the garden was dead, 
and so, too, was the plum, whose whitened branches 
still hung over the well, and the currant bushes were 
past bearing ; while the Nipmoosh, that rippled along 
the garden fence, and through the small meadow in 
front of the house, had shrunken, from a respectable 
stream, to a brook of the most miserable pretensions. 
But the changes within the house were greater even 
than those without. The badly-lighted rooms were 
smaller than they had been ; the wainscots were dark 
with age and smoke, and the heavy beams, which 
crossed the unplastered ceilings, were now so low that 
Sally, by no means a very tall woman, always walked 
under them with a stoop, as if afraid of knocking her 
head against them. 


28 


GUY EEYBERT. 


“How altered since I saw it last!” said tlie good 
lady with a half sigh. There was, indeed, a change; 
but it was in herself. The old woman could not now 
see things with the eyes of her girlhood. 

“But we must make the best of it,” she contin- 
ued, with returning cheerfulness ; and going to work 
with a determination “to make the best of it” she 
soon succeeded in effecting the necessary change. The 
superfluous branches of the apple trees were lopped ; 
the dead mulberry and plum were no longer suffered 
“ to cumber the ground,” and the unproductive cur- 
rant bushes were grubbed up, and their places sup- 
plied with others, while a plot was stolen from the 
vegetables in the garden, and a few flowers planted 
in their stead. The interior of the old house also 
underwent a thorough renovation. The windows 
were enlarged, the walls and ceilings painted white, 
and the heavy old furniture packed away in the 
garret, to make room for that which was newer in 
pattern, and lighter and more graceful in appearance. 
Indeed, hardly any thing remained as it had been 
thirty odd years before ; yet when Sally Jessup 
looked around upon her improvements, she said with 
a smile of satisfaction, “Ah! things are at last as 
they used to be I” 


GUY REYBERT. 


29 


IV. 

THE PREDICTION. 

What plans my benefactress bad formed for me, I 
do not know ; but sbe certainly could not bave in- 
tended me for a farmer, for, except in assisting to get 
in tbe bay, gather the apples, or busk tbe corn, I was 
never asked, nor apparently expected, to take upon 
me any portion of tbe labor of tbe farm ; but when I 
was not at school — which was about tbe half of 
every year — I was allowed to waste my time just as 
tbe whim of the moment prompted, in reading the 
few books in our scanty library, or such as could be 
borrowed of the neighbors, or in wandering abroad 
among tbe woods and bills of tbe surrounding country. 

But, with tbe exception of “ Paradise Lost’? and tbe 
“Seasons,” an odd volume of Shakspeare, tbe wri- 
tings of Burns, and two or three other poets less 
known to fame, my reading was not of a kind to add 
much to my small stock of knowledge, or greatly to 
improve either my understanding or my heart; — 
novels and romances that set all truth and even pro- 
bability at defiance, from which every thing like na- 
ture was excluded as low, and in which love, the all- 
engrossing subject of their pages, was elevated into a 
god or transformed into a demon. But if reading 
like this was little conducive to health or strength of 


80 


GUY EEYBERT. 


mind, mj idle wanderings among the woods and hills 
were as little conducive to bodily health. One filled 
with the passions of manhood the breast of youth, 
and the other enervated the body, they should have 
strengthened, by the indulgence they afforded for 
profitless dreamings, and by fostering a spirit of dis- 
content with the humble condition in which I had 
been placed by the arbitrariness of fortune. Yet so 
long as I showed a fondness for books, and no fond- 
ness, but rather a disrelish, for the company of boys 
of my own age, the simple-minded Sally believed 
every thing to be right, and left me uncontrolled and 
unquestioned to the indulgence of my humor. 

Wild dreams and vague desires had long made me 
dissatisfied with my position ; and dissatisfaction with 
the present rendered me impatient for the future, and 
I sought to anticipate the revelations of time, by 
means common to the ignorant in all ages, — that is, 
by consulting one who was supposed to possess more 
knowledge of coming events than could have been 
lawfully come by. I went to a Fortune Teller, — a 
miserable crone, whose youth must have been past 
before the breaking out of the war of the Revolution, 
who burrowed in a wretched hut a couple of miles 
from Kipmoosh Hollow, and lived by the supersti- 
tious folly or the country- people, — from .whom I was 
to learn my fate. This I now know was folly. But 
how should I have been wiser then than my neigh- 
bors, or my kind benefactress, who had seen so many 
more years than I, who firmly believed in the predic- 
tions of the Witch of the Plains ? 


GUY REYBERT. 


81 


It would be foolish here to repeat all that I was 
told by this old woman.' One thing only, from the 
power I have been weak enough to allow it to exer- 
cise upon the happiness of my life, I will relate : 
which was, that, before the going down of the sun 
that day, I was to see the being who was for good or 
evil to influence my fate. 

I had been accompanied by a lad of about my own 
age, the only boy I ever made even a temporary com- 
panion, who, when we reached the “bars” where I 
was to leave the turnpike for the foot-path that led 
down to the Hollow, said with a laugh as we sepa- 
rated, 

“Your time’s short, Guy. The sun’s behind the 
pines already, and in less than a quarter of an hour 
will be clean gone.” 

“Greater interests than ours, Warren, have been 
decideddn less time than that,” I returned gayly, and 
was about to spring over the fence, when my atten- 
tion was attracted by the loud tones and merry laugh- 
ter of a party of equestrians that was coming up the 
road. 

It consisted of three gentlemen and two ladies, all 
of a decided wwcountry look, particularly the latter, 
who, from the strong likeness between them, were 
evidently mother and daughter, of the respective ages 
of forty and sixteen. Both were good horsewomen ; 
but not equally good; for while the elder sat and 
managed her animal with the ease of a woman reared 
in the country, but with infinitely more grace than 
any mere country-woman I had ever seen, the younger. 


32 


GUY KEYBEBT. 


though without the least awkwardness, did not show 
the same self-possession. The former was an uncom- 
monly fine woman, in the full meridian of her beauty, 
with perhaps a slight dash of the man in her bearing, 
and the latter a sligb t girl of the most exquisite love- 
liness. 

Just as they were passing, the younger lady dropped 
her whip, and the gentleman nearest to her stopped, 
and was about to dismount to recover it ; but before 
he could do so, I had jumped from the fence and re- 
turned it to her. She received it with a bow, and a 
smile that revived the decaying splendors of the hour, 
when thanking me in a voice of the most enchanting 
melody, she rode on with the rest, and, by a turn in 
the road, was soon hidden from my sight. 

She took the daylight with her. 


V 

LOVE IN IDLENESS. 

The books, in which I had hitherto delighted, now 
no longer afforded me pleasure ; but my love of soli- 
tude, becoming every day greater, grew at last into a 
passion so strong, that any thing which interfered 
with the indulgence of it was regarded as a positive 
evil. Even the hours absolutely necessary for food 
and rest, were most grudgingly given, for then the 


GUY REYBERT. 


83 


fairy realm in which I wandered when alone, I wa? 
forced to abandon for the dull realities of life, and 
my one companion of the woods and hills for the 
mere men and women of this sordid world. And 
what a realm was that from which I was so painfully 
withdrawn ! And what a companion was she so re- 
luctantly left behind! It is true, that to the un- 
anointed eye, my favorite haunt was nothing more 
than a solitary dingle embosomed among the hills, 
for whose protection the arms of mighty trees were 
interlaced, and upon which the heavens were ever 
looking smilingly and lovingly down. But to me it 
was a garden more beautiful than Eden, in the midst 
of which arose a palace of porphyry and gold ; and 
among the flowers of that garden, and through the 
halls of that gorgeous palace, did I walk for happy, 
happy hours, hand in hand with a being of indescrib- 
able loveliness, whose gentle eyes were fondly raised 
towards mine, and whose whispered accents of en^ 
dearment sunk deep into my heart, as refreshing dews 
sink into the cup of the flower. Garden and palace 
were the creations of fancy, but to memory was I in- 
debted for the companionship of her whose beauty 
was to my soul a perpetual joy. 

But my garden became suddenly a waste ; my glo- 
rious palace, by a power more potent even than time, 
was crumbled into dust, and the companion of my 
wanderings rudely torn from my side. The dream of 
months was at an end, and, without preparation, was I 
suddenly brought face to face with the Real. Death 
had entered the old house in the Hollow, and I was 
2 * 


84 


GUY REYBEET. 


once more an orphan, some years older, it is true, 
than when my parents had been taken from me, yet 
little less helpless. Sally Jessup was dead ; had died 
w^ithout the premonitions of sickness, and intestate; 
and the little property to which she had always told 
me I should succeed, was taken possession of by her 
administrator and nearest of kin, and I was obliged 
to seek a new home. 

Heaven forbid that I should plant a nettle on the 
grave of the kindest and most disinterested of human 
beings. Whatever she did for me was done for my 
happiness, and whatever she left undone was for my 
comfort or convenience. She had no thought but how 
she could best gratify my peculiar tastes or fancies at 
the time. But the very love of my kind benefactress 
has been to me a curse ; for it was that love which, 
when I should have been abroad, strengthening the 
body by healthful labor in the fields, or storing my 
mind with useful knowledge at home, suffered me to 
waste my time in enervating idleness and foolish 
dreams, or in poring over books that were destructive 
alike of mental vigor and purity of heart. Yet even 
this mistaken kindness might have been less hurtful 
in its effects, had now and then a grain of religious 
k^nowledge been dropped into the fallow mind of 
childhood. But, unhappily, religion was a thing with 
which this excellent woman, so good by nature, was 
wholly unacquainted ; and to weeds, that looked like 
flowers, was left the soil in which no good seed had 
been sown. 


GUY KEYBERT. 


35 


YL 

ASTEPFORWARD. 

There was no unkindness in the tone, nor do I 
think there was any unkindness in the heart of Mr. 
Allen, the successor of Sally Jessup, when he inti- 
mated to me the necessity of seeking a new home. 
He was a prudent, hard-working man, whose children 
— had been carefully brought up in habits of industry, ' 
and, as I was likely to prove little better than a drone 
in the domestic hive, it was not to be expected that I 
should live in idleness at the expense of others. It 
was right that I should seek a new home, and being 
now eighteen, at least, and well grown, learn to do 
something for myself. But where was that home to 
be sought; and what, with my utter ignorance of 
^very thing like business, was I to do in it for my 
support when found ? 

“I will return,” said I, “to the place of my birth; 
and by the exercise of whatever talent God has en- 
dowed me with, earn for myself a present livelihood, 
and fortune it may be, or even worldly consideration, 
in the future.” This resolution formed, I hastened to 
act upon it; and bidding adieu to the grave of my 
second mother, and sending; my trunk on by a wagon 
to the place at which I was to take the steamboat, I 
turned my back forever upon Hipmoosh Hollow, and 


36 


aUY REYBERT. 


began my journey towards the metropolis on foot. 

It was a lovely October morning, bright and cool ; 
and the few miles I had to walk, before I could be 
taken up by the stage, seemed rather a pleasant exer- 
cise than the first serious essay in the great business 
of life; and when, in passing through a mountain 
gorge, I saw the newly-risen sun, like a globe of fire, 
fill the whole open, space before me, I regarded it as 
an omen of the glory that was one day to fill my 
path, and went on my way with a heart as light as 
my footsteps. 

But my spirits, so buoyant before, fell rapidly as I 
approached the city ; and when I found myself in its 
crowded streets, where, among the thousands who 
jostled me on every side, I saw not one friendly or 
familiar face, they sank almost to the point of despair. 
Then, for the first time in my life, did I feel what is 
meant by solitude^ to which, although I had for years 
been a daily wanderer by myself among woods and 
hills, I had hitherto been a stranger. The weight of 
the heavy future fell at once upon my heart, and, 
whatever might have been its native energies, they 
seemed for the time and forever crushed beneath it. 
Tears would at that moment have been a great relief, 
but the pride of young manhood forbade them to 
flow, and, with the air of one who at every step 
expects to encounter an enemy, I pursued my way 
alone. 


GUY REYBERT 


87 


VIL 

THE FIRST WRONG STEP. 

It is not by the great trials of life that the power 
of endurance in man is ever so truly tested, as by 
those petty annoyances with which, like briers in his 
path, he becomes entangled in his journey ings through 
the wilderness of this world. Many a brave spirit 
who could have borne without shrinking the tor- 
ments of martyrdom, has become impatient of the 
sting of an insect ; and for my own part, I think I 
could have met with greater equanimity what all 
would admit to be positive afflictions, than the sordid 
cares and daily irritations of years of struggle with 
narrow means and untoward circumstances, until by 
unflagging industry I had risen to a partnership in a 
respectable mercantile house, into which I had been 
admitted in a very humble capacity indeed,. 

From the day of my arrival in the city, my greatest 
ambition had been to create for myself a home, in 
which I should at length find the kindness and sym- 
pathy for which my spirit yearned ; and when, at the 
age of twenty-five, I really became the possessor of 
one I could call my own, I said confidently to myself, 
“Now will I be happy!” And happy I might have 
been, had I only subjected to reason the impulses of 
a wayward and undisciplined heart. 


88 


GUY REYBERT. 


The one I had chosen to share with me my home 
was a fair gentle girl, barely eighteen, who had, like 
me, been an orphan from her childhood, but who, un- 
like me, was still happy in the possession of the friend 
who had, with the care of a tender mother, watched 
over her from that time until the present. This was 
the sister of her father, a widow lady without chil- 
dren, whose quiet cheerfulness was not likely to de- 
tract from the comfort of the domestic circle which she 
was now invited to join, and whose practical knowl- 
edge would supply what was wanting in the experi- 
ence of Agnes in the management of her household. 

But in marrying for a home, I committed one se- 
rious error, was guilty of one most grievous sin of 
omission. Believing I had overcome the fancy of 
my boyhood, I did not look sufficiently deep into my 
heart, to know if any abiding affection was there for 
the fair girl whose lot I had indissolubly linked with 
mine ; and it was not until months after I had become 
a husband, that the truth was fully revealed to me, 
that I cherished no feeling for my wife which could 
deserve the name of hve. I admired her beauty, re- 
spected her virtues, and was grateful for the efforts 
she made in her own quiet way to render me happy. 
But the love that would have regarded v/ith indiffer- 
ence the loss of personal charms; that would have 
excused her faults — if faults she had — or turned those 
very faults into virtues ; that would have borne with 
firmness the loss of all earthly comforts for her sake, 
I had not ; and the mere liking^ with which I foolishly 
hoped to supply its place, was but a poor foundation 


GUY REYBERT. 


89 


whereon to rear a structure, th^t should withstand the 
storms to which all human happiness is exposed. 

Nor was this my only error. Another, and one 
hardly less serious, was that I committed in urging 
Mrs. Ryland to break up her own familj?-, and become 
permanently a part of mine. For many years had 
this lady supplied to Agnes the place of father and 
mother, and the grateful heart of the young orphan 
had given her, in return for her care, the full amount 
of that love which her parents had not lived to claim. 
The influence she therefore possessed over the mind 
of her niece — a mind she may be said originally to 
have formed — must have been very great ; and, with- 
out pausing to inquire how far that influence was 
likely to clash with what, as a husband, I might rea- 
sonably hope to exercise over my wife, I took the 
most certain way of perpetuating it, by bringing her 
into my house. But as it was an error of judgment 
and not of the will, I cannot even now blame myself 
very severely for it. 


YIIL 

GATHERING CLOUDS. 

Three years now passed, during which, if not pos- 
itively happy, I was at least reasonably contented 
with my lot, for 1 was in the enjoyment of good 


40 


GUY REYBERT. 


health and a prosperous business, and I still found the 
beauty of my wife, which was every day maturing 
into more perfect loveliness, gratifying to my pride, 
and her child-like simplicity of character a subject 
of pleasing contemplation. Yet, if the truth must 
be told, there were times when I would have given 
all her beauty, and much of her real worth, to have 
found in her a more appreciative'* spirit. That she 
loved me, as much as it would seem lawful for one 
of her strong religious feelings to love a mere crea- 
ture, I do not doubt ; but our tastes were hardly in 
any thing the same, and I was not sure that she al- 
ways understood me ; and I am ashamed to own how 
impatient, if not more than impatient, I ofttimes felt 
at the little interest she manifested in subjects to 
which I attached great, it may have been undue, im- 
portance, and to mark with what indifference she lis- 
tened to the passages I occasionally read to her from 
my favorite authors. Yet, if some have been hap- 
pier, few I am convinced ever had juster grounds for 
content, than I in those three years of my married 
life, for had I not a friend in Mrs. Eyland, a true and 
loving wife in Agnes, and in my boy, my darling 
Willie, an object of present delight, and of hope for 
the years to come? Yes, these I had: alas I what 
have I now? 

At the end of those three years, the latent evil of 
my nature was first developed, and the low mutter- 
ings of the storm, that was to wreck my peace forever, 
began to make themselves heard. But of the one I 
was as unconscious as I was deaf to the other. I was 


GUY REYBEET. 


41 


too much engrossed with the world without to take 
much heed of that within. I had become an author; 
and the praises bestowed upon my book, Tby the makers 
of reputations in the small circle in which I moved, 
gratified a vanity never difficult to excite, and intro- 
duced me to the acquaintance of persons whose notice 
I felt it an honor to be able to claim, but whose ex- 
ample, to one so weak of purpose as I, could be no- 
thing less than ruinous. By that example was I led, 
night after night, to leave my quiet home and the 
companionship of those who loved me, for places of 
idle amusement and literary reunions^ where the senses 
were charmed and the intellect sharpened, but the 
heart rendered intensely selfish, and the moral sense 
most sadly perverted ; and by that example, too, did 
I learn to raise without scruple the wine cup to my 
lips, and look without shuddering upon orgies in 
which the reason of man is brought below the in- 
stinct of the brute. 

Now it was that the error I had committed in bring- 
ing Mrs. Eyland into my family made itself apparent. 
Had I been alone with Agnes, the sense of her entire 
dependence upon me for companionship, must, I think, 
have kept me at home at times when business engage- 
ments did not furnish a reasonable pretence for going 
abroad; and her gentleness could hardly have failed 
to win me back to the path from which I was wander- 
ing. But having her aunt always with her, I made 
myself believe that she did not really need my com- 
pany, and that I was therefore at liberty to consult 
my own pleasure or convenience only in the disposal 


42 


GUY REYBEKT. 


of my evenings; and whenever I did that which I 
knew to be wrong, I had not only to endure the up- 
braidings of my own heart — severe enough at times, 
Heaven knows — and the reproaches of the unspoken 
sorrow of my poor wife, but the sharp, though gener- 
ally indirect rebukes of Mrs. Kyland, who, mild and 
forgiving where she alone was the sufferer, was hot in 
resentment of any thing done to the injury of her 
niece, which kept me in a state of constant irritation, 
and ready at all times to give way to the evil temper 
that had of late become my daily companion. But 
the end was not yet. 


IX. 

A VISION OF THE PAST. 

From my known acquaintance with dramatic liter- 
ature, and fondness for the theatre, I came to be re- 
garded by many of my associates as something of a 
judge in matters relating to the stage, and whenever 
a new actor appeared, or a new play was brought out, 
I was sure to make one of a party to decide for the 
public upon their respective merits, and I can honestly 
say that I never used the power of the critic ungener- 
ously. One night I made one of a party of this kind, 
for the purpose of welcoming back an actress, who 
had gone from among us poor and comparatively un- 


GUY REYBERT. 


43 


known, but was returning rich in fame and fortune, 
which had been won as much by her beauty as the 
wonderfal talents she was allowed to possess. 

Having procured tickets in the morning, we joined 
the crowd in front of the theatre quite early in the 
afternoon, and, though the heat was oppressive, and 
the noise and confusion any thing but pleasant, re- 
mained patiently together until the doors were opened, 
when, availing ourselves of our knowledge of the 
house, we made our way without much difficulty to 
our customary places in the pit. 

The theatre was filled almost as soon as opened, 
and before the first note of the music was heard, there 
was not a vacant square foot within its walls ; for even 
the lobbies were crowded by those who, if they could 
not see, hoped they might at least catch the tones of 
that voice which had already thrilled the hearts of 
•uncounted thousands. Yet the inconvenience — not to 
say suffering — of hundreds of human beings, wedged 
together into one solid mass, was borne without a 
murmur by that multitude of anxious expectants, 
who seemed to forget every thing but to behold the 
divinity of the hour. 

The play was “ Fazio,” a work of no great literary 
merit, but quite a favorite with certain actresses, for 
the opportunities it affords for the delineation of the 
two great passions of love and jealousy; and as the 
heroine appears in the first scene, all hands were 
ready to applaud the moment the curtain drew up, 
and discovered Bianca sitting at work in the labora- 
tory of her husband. My hands were ready, too, but 


44 


GUY KEYBERT. 


I did nothing to swell the thunder which at that mo- 
ment shook the building, for a sudden faintness came 
over me, and my hands fell powerless at my sides. 
Could I be awake, or had, indeed, the vision of my 
boyish fancy become reality, and was here to bless or 
to curse me? Full twelve years had passed since the 
incident of the road which I have related, and the 
slight figure and girlish face were changed to those 
of the beautiful and perfectly-developed woman ; but 
ere the first tones of that too well remembered voice 
fell upon my ear, I was convinced that, in the world- 
renowned actress before me, I saw the being to whom 
I had foolishly rendered up all the affections of my 
boyish heart. 


X. 

THE PREDICTION VERIFIED. 

That night I made the acquaintance of the actress, 
who, I was flattered to find, remembered, with the 
distinctness of one who had often made it the subject 
of pleasing thought, the trifling incident of the whip, 
and from that moment the passion of my boyhood, 
with all its early strength, and more than all its early 
fervor, returned, and I yielded to it without reserve 
every power of my mind and every faculty of my 
soul. For days, and weeks, and months T attended 
her like her shadow, seemed to live but in her pres- 


GUY REYBERT. 


45 


ence, and for hei* sake trod madly under foot every 
social and moral obligation, and became wilfully deaf 
to the calls of duty, the reproaches of conscience, and 
the voice of wronged affection. The admonitions of 
friends and the sneers of enemies, the serious remon- 
strances of my partners, the bitter remarks of Mrs. Ey- 
land, the fading cheeks and silent tears of my wife, 
and even the looks of fear, if not of hate, in the baby 
face of my little Willie, all failed to restore me to 
reason for a single hour, for the poison of unholy 
passion had become mingled with the very current of 
my life, and all healthful action was destroyed alike 
in heart and brain. Yet, as I felt myself sinking in 
the esteem of my friends, aye, and even in my own, I 
assumed to all around me a demeanor of haughtiness, 
as if I would command the outward respect of those 
who I knew must inwardly despise me. 

At length my partners, finding all their efforts to 
win me back to duty unavailing, would not suffer me 
to remain any longer with them, and they, who had 
so kindly encouraged my early industry, and gener- 
ously rewarded my probity with their confidence, and 
a respectable share of the business they had been 
years in building up, now thrust me out from among 
them with anger and ignominy. This circumstance, 
which a few months before would have crushed me to 
the earth, I now regarded as an act of gross injustice, 
and as such resented it with unseemly violence and 
unmanly insult; and to show how little I regarded it, 
I went at once to join a party of friends — as I called 
them, in the language of the world — to dine at a 


46 


GUY KEYBERT. 


fashionable hotel, with whom I afterwards adjourned 
to the theatre, to bask in the light of that beauty, 
which was then shedding its radiance upon admiring 
hundreds, but which shone in an especial manner 
upon me, for were not my last expensive gifts worn 
ostentatiously upon the lovely throat and polished 
arms of my divinity ? I then accompanied her and her 
mother to her house, where, with a select few, I had 
been invited to sup, from which, at a late hour, worn 
down with excitement, I returned to my own home. 

Contrary to what I had expected, I found Agnes in 
the parlor, and, without noticing how she was em- 
ployed, began to rate her harshly for disobeying my 
oft-repeated command — never to wait up for me. But 
she raised herself from the sofa over which she had 
been bending, and confronted me with an air of scorn 
and defiance. The trodden worm had turned at last, 
and, waving me from her, she hissed through her 
clenched teeth, 

“Beastly reveller I come not here to disturb the 
dying moments of my angel boy I Back to the stye 
in which you have been wallowing, and profane not 
this holy place with your accursed presence I Begone I” 

Her words fell like fire upon my brain, and, in a 
moment of frenzy, I turned and obeyed. 

Without knowing, and indeed without at all caring 
what I did, or whither I was going, I sought again 
the house of the actress, who was still up, though the 
last of her guests must have been some time gone, 
and her mother — the dragon that had always stood 
between me and the golden fruit I coveted— no doubt 


GUY EEYBERT. 


47 


asleep. She looked surprised at my entrance, but re- 
ceived me with her usual kindness, and expressed a 
hope that no accident had happened to occasion this 
unexpected, and certainly not very seasonable visit. 
What my immediate reply was I do not know. The 
first I now remember is, that I found myself upon 
my knees before her, declaring the intensity of my 
passion, for which I had sacrificed good name and pros- 
perity, domestic peace and the welfare of my soul, 
and imploring her to fl/ with me from a place which 
must evermore be hateful to me. 

“Fool!” said she, with a look of withering scorn, 
as she tore herself from my grasp, “ could you think, 
because I have been tolerant of your follies for the 
sake of your usefulness, that I would throw myself 
away upon a creature like you ? The thought is an 
insult. Rise, sir, and leave this house, or I will have 
you thrust into the street like a dog 1” I rose and 
staggered forth, and as I heard the door' slammed 
after me, fell senseless upon the pavement. 


XL 

FANTASIES. 

A HOERIBLE darkness was above and around me. 
The earth trembled and heaved as in the throes of an 
earthquake ; the thunders of Heaven were answered 
by thunders that rolled beneath my feet, while forked 


48 


GUY REYBERT. 


lightnings, like fiery serpents, darted across my path, 
and twined around me at every step. Destruction 
threatened me on every side; for the Demon of the 
Storm had come abroad in all his terrors, and wher- 
ever he passed, the mightiest works of man’s hands — 
the princely palace and majestic temple — were lev- 
elled with the dust; and so, with terrible sounds 
ringing in my ears — shrieks, and groans, and hisses, 
and shouts of mocking laughter — I fled howling on 
beyond the city’s bounds, and on beyond the habita- 
tions of my kind, until I entered upon a plain that 
seemed to spread out before me a limitless ocean of sand. 

And over that plain for days, and weeks, and 
months, without sleep, without food, v/ithout even a 
drop of water to cool my hot and swollen tongue, 
with those same sounds still ringing in my ears, I 
toiled, while a burning sun, that never set, glared on 
me from a dull red sky, and the sands were to my 
unprotected feet like ashes new fallen from a glowing 
furnace. 

But, lo ! the sea, the ever glorious sea, met at length 
my longing eyes, and, with a shout of joy, I rushed 
forward to throw myself into its coveted embrace. 
Alas! in a moment of wildest commotion, it had 
been frozen into stone, and I fell upon its icy and 
jagged bosom bruised and stunned. And there I 
hoped my miseries would forever end. But no. A 
power within, that I could not resist, goaded me on- 
ward, and, weak and bleeding, I rose to climb its glit- 
tering heights, only to be precipitated into depths 
beyond the reach of light. 


GUY REYBERT. 


49 


But the shore was gained at last ; and I soon found 
myself in a beautiful meadow covered with the soft 
grass of spring, and sprinkled all over with delicate 
blue and white, and golden and purple flowers, sur- 
rounded by trees that waved and rustled in the morn- 
ing air, while among their branches hopped and twit- 
tered innumerable birds, to whose innocent hearts was 
existence happiness enough. Here, overcome by fa- 
tigue and long suffering, I lay down and slept, and 
slept so soundly that I did not even dream. 


XIL 

REVELATIONS 

When I awoke, the scene was altogether changed. 
I was lying upon a bed in a darkened room, and by 
my side was seated an elderly female in the habit of 
a Sister of Charity, who rose as I looked up at her, 
and kindly raising my head, by putting one hand 
under my pillow, held to my lips a cup containing a 
most delicious beverage. 

“Where am I?” I asked, as she laid me gently 
down. 

“Among friends,” she answered cheerfully. 

“But in what country?” 

“ In your own country, arid in you^ own city.” 

After lying still a few minutes, for I was quite too 
3 


50 


GUY REYBEET. 


weak to say more than a few words at a time, I again 
asked, 

“ Is tkere any one here who knows me ?” 

“Yes, Gruy, I am here,” answered some one coming 
up from the foot of the bed. It was Mrs. Hyland. 

“ And Agnes ? Is not she, too, here ?” 

“ Agnes is not here — at present.” 

“Come,” interposed the Sister, with a smile, “we 
must have no more talk just now.” And thereupon 
Mrs. Eyland fell back to the foot of the bed ; the Sis- 
ter resumed her seat, and I again sank into a deep 
sleep, during which the Sister gave up her place to 
Mrs. Hyland, whom I found sitting by me when I 
next awoke. 

I was glad of this ; for as there was much I was 
most anxious to know, I felt it would be easier to 
question her alone than in the presence of a stranger. 

“ What place is this ?” I asked, for I knew I was 
not at home. 

“St. Vincent’s Hospital,” she answered, with evi- 
dent reluctance. 

“ How came I here ?” 

“You had met with an accident in the street, and 
were brought here by the charitable gentleman who 
picked you up, because he did not know where else 
to take you.” 

“ Is it long since ?” 

“ About ten months.” 

“ So long I Then I have been very ill ?” 

“Very.” ^ ' 

“ But you have not been with me all that time ?” 


GUY REYBEET. 


61 


“Kot all. You had been here some weeks before 
I knew it, for I was very much engaged about that 
time ; but since I found you, I have been here a good 
deal.” 

“And Agnes? Has she not been here some- 
times ?” 

“ It is forbidden,” she said, evading the question, 
“for you to talk much at a time; so now try and 
sleep again.” 

“ There is something,” I said, earnestly, “ that you 
would keep from me. But I must know it. Agnes 
has not been able to forgive me — how, indeed, could 
she?— and therefore has not been to see me.” 

“ Agnes was too good a Christian, too loving a 
wife, not to forgive whatever wrongs she may have 
received at the hands of her husband.” 

“ TTas.^ Gracious Heaven I what is this? Is Ag- 
nes deadV' 

“ She has passed from a life of pain and sorrow,” 
she answered solemnly, but with a trembling voice, 
“ to one of eternal joy !” 

“ 0, my boy 1 my poor, poor Willie !” I said, when 
my tears permitted me to speak, “ how will the sad- 
ness of thy sweet young face upbraid the father whose 
crimes have made thee motherless !” 

“ He will never upbraid you, Guy.” 

“ Then he, too, is dead ?” 

She bowed her head, and answered with her tears. 


62 


GUY REYBERT. 


XIIL 

CONCLUSION. 

Slowly and painfully, very, very slowly and pain* 
fully, passed the time until I was sufficiently restored 
to leave the hospital, for the mind, deprived of other 
occupation, would dwell upon what was afflicting in 
the past, particularly upon the death of my wife and 
child, which, though attributed by the world to scar* 
let fever, that had cut them off within three weeks of 
each other, I felt to be my work ; for, had I not crim* 
inally neglected them when the disease first appeared 
in my boy, its progress might have been checked, and 
the insidious enemy without much difficulty defeated. 

Instead of which But why dwell upon this 

now? God did not neglect them if I did; and His 
love and care were shown for them, by calling them 
home to his own eternal dwelling-place, where pain is 
never felt and sorrow has no name. 

I was at length pronounced well, and at liberty to 
quit the hospital. But whither was I to go? The 
savings of years had been thrown away, and the 
house, which I had once thought would be the shelter 
of my old age, had been sold to satisfy a claim that I 
had suffered to remain against it, and I was about to 
be sent back into the world without money and with- 
out a home. But Mrs. Eyland, who had so long as- 


GUY REYBERT 


53 


sisted in the care of me, did not now forsake me. 
With the readiness of one who had received nothing 
but kindness from him who had wounded her so 
deeply, through the object of her dearest affections, 
she offered to share with me her little fortune. This, 
of course, I could not do otherwise than refuse ; but 
begged, instead, that she would obtain something by 
which, without again venturing into the ways of 
temptation, I might earn enough to supply the wants 
of one whose life should be thenceforth in contrast 
with his days of reckless waste and sinful self-indul- 
gence. She did so. And to her active charity am I 
indebted for the little happiness I can still enjoy — the 
happiness of being independent. 


’Tis very strange I For three nights, and at the 
same hour, have I heard music — not in the dark and 
silent street below, nor from any house in the neigh- 
borhood, for it came not until the lamp of the last 
watcher was extinguished — but in the air. The first 
it came from a distance, seemingly as far as the river ; 
the second it was nearer, not farther from me than the 
width of the street, yet above me ; and now it seems 
just outside of my window. What can it mean ? Is 
it, as I fondly hope, an intimation from above, that 
the sacrifice of a contrite heart has been accepted ; 
that the long struggle is nearly over, and the weary 
spirit shall find peace at last ? 

My eyes grow heavy ; and Sleep, that has so long 


64 


GUY REYBERT. 


forsaken me, comes now, and lays mj head upon her 
ioving bosom, and softly bids me take my fill of rest. 
Best ! — 


^‘In meetings of a certain kind,” said Max, after 
listening for some time quite complacently to our 
comments upon his story, “it is theycustom for the 
last singer to name him who next shall entertain the 
company. This is called ‘ knocking one down for a 
song.’ Would it not be well for us to imitate this 
custom in our entertainment here ?” 

“ 0, certainly,” was the inimediate response of all. 

“Then, Miss Kate,” said he, “I knock you down 
for the next story.” 

“ And I,” returned Kate, with a gravity as becom- 
ing to her as the regimentals of a “Seventy-Sixer” to 
the boy-soldier of our own day, “with the philosophic 
spirit of my sex, bow submission to the ‘ blow.’ ” 


^arlur faarhr. 


A SCHOOL R E MIN I SCENC E OF KATE’S. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 0 Death 1 

We know when moons shall wane. 

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea. 

When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain, 

But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 

Mrs. Hemans. 


You all know, I suppose, that because I could not, 
or, it may be, would not, learn French at home from 
funny old Macheboeuf, whose tone, if not accent, I 
did my best to imitate at my lessons, by holding my 
nose while repeating his words, I was cruelly exiled 
at a very early age to Mount St. Margaret, wh^e a 
number of ladies from France had established them- 
selves, for the laudable purpose of imparting some of 
their own cultivation to the minds and manners of 
the female portion of “Young America.” This act I 
regarded at the time as one of gross injustice, as who 


50 


THE PAELOR BOARDER. 


at my age would not? But, having outlived the in- 
fliction of the wrong, I have, with my wonted mag- 
nanimity, long since forgiven it. 

I was at that time the youngest in the school, and 
was, in consequence, something of a plaything for the 
older girls, and soon became quite a pet with Madame 
la Superieure herself, whose endearing appellation of 
Petit Ohou'^ “ littlq cabbage,” — an abbreviation, pro- 
bably, of Chou-chou ^ — attaches to me among some of 
my very old friends even until this day ; and, not be- 
ing for a while overburthened with tasks, I had an 
opportunity, which I did not neglect to improve, of 
indulging to the utmost my natural spirit of inquiry, 
or, as some of you, perhaps, would call it, of inquisi- 
tiveness, and, before I was a month in the convent, 
knew the history of almost every girl in it, the num- 
ber of dresses each one had, besides her uniforms, 
what pocket-money she was allowed, and whether 
she had at home such a dear, good-natured old grand- 
papa as I had. 

Well, having sufficiently satisfied, or perhaps ex- 
hausted, my spirit of inquiry, I sat myself down in 
good earnest to study, and bade fair to carry away 
the green ribbon, the badge of distinction in my class, 
when my mind was suddenly drawn from its proper 
pursuit by the arrival among us of a hew scholar. 
Whence, or when, or how she came no one knew ; at 
least, none of us little girls knew. The first knowl- 
edge we had of her, was her appearance in class, un- 
heralded and unintroduced. But it was only in class 
or the refectory that we saw anything of her, for, 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


57 


being a “ Parlor Boarder,” sbe neitber shared our dor- 
mitory, nor joined in our recreations. Whether she 
ever saw any of us we could not easily decide, for, 
from the time she came in among us until she went 
out, she never raised her eyes to the face of any one 
present, though, to be sure, she could not well have 
raised her eyes to mine, who was but a little thing at 
the time, scarcely knee-high to a lady-bug, while she 
was a full-grown woman, and very old we thought — 
twenty at the least. 

A woman grown, and with the unmistakable air of 
a lady, to come to school ! was enough to excite the 
wonder of every little head in the class, and this won- 
der was increased, when we found how far behind the 
slowest she was in her knowledge of French, which, 
with music, was all that she seemed to apply herself 
to. But our wonder at all this was less than our ad- 
miration of her surpassing beauty, a beauty entirely 
without the “foreign aid of ornament;” for she was 
in mourning, and her beauty was almost hidden be- 
neath a veil of the deepest melancholy. Indeed, we 
hardly knew at times whether most to admire or pity 
her, for the look of hopeless sorrow' in that lo’fely 
face would have made a heart of stone — if stones 
have hearts — ache to contemplate. 

Months passed, and in her rapid progress the “Par- 
lor Boarder” left far behind all those she had started 
with at the beginning of the year, and her first class- 
mates saw little of her now but in the refectory. Yet 
that little showed them she was still unchanged, that 
she still came and went with her eyes bent upon the 
3 * 


58 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


floor, and with the same look of settled sorrow that 
had so much excited our pity when she came first 
among us. But one thing more than our useless con- 
jectures of the cause of her sorrow now particularly 
troubled us. Though a regular attendant upon the 
services of the chapel, she never approached the altar, 
and we, who had more zeal perhaps than knowledge, 
began to regard her in our uncharitable little hearts, 
as one unhappily without the pale of Christianity, 
and condemned already to eternal reprobation. 

This fear, however, was after a time removed. Du- 
ring the last week of Lent, it was whispered through 
the convent, that the “Parlor Boarder” had been seen 
in conference with the chaplain — had actually gone to 
confession ; and we were all delighted on Easter morn- 
ing to see her among the first communicants. From 
that time her manner became changed. Though she 
still wore a look of sadness, and retained much of her 
taciturnity, she no longer studied to avoid us, but, 
without joining in them, was a frequent witness of 
our amusements, and would sometimes even speak a 
pleasant word or bestow a kindly smile upon one of 
us little ones. 

Vacation came, and I was brought home, leaving 
the “Parlor Boarder” at the convent. When, six 
weeks after, I was taken back, the “ Parlor Boarder” 
was gone ; but when or with whom she went, no one 
could tell, or those who could, would not ; and in a 
little while she was quite forgotten by most, and sel- 
dom thought of by the rest of us, when our memories 
were agreeably refreshed concerning her by the ar- 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


69 


rival of a magnificent cake — a wedding gift to her 
young friends at Mount St. Margaret, from Mrs. Har- 
ral, the late ‘Parlor Boarder’ of the convent;” and, 
until the cake was eaten, few things were discussed 
among us but the beauty and melancholy of the 
donor, and the mystery that still surrounded her. 

But “ eaten bread is soon forgotten,” and so is eaten 
cake, and the eaten cake was hardly sooner forgotten 
than she who had given it, when, in little less than 
two years, she came again to possess herself of a place 
in our memories, and this time an abiding one. 

A lady, who had been for some time a postulant, 
was about to take the veil, and all the scholars were 
summoned to the chapel to witness the ceremony. 
Here every thing wore a festal appearance. Statues 
and pictures were crowned and draped and festooned 
with flowers. The bishop, who, with his attendant 
priests, sat within the sanctuary, was in full pon- 
tificals, and the altar was beautifully adorned and 
blazing with lights. But with all this display we 
were familiar, and it could not divert our attention 
from the door at which the postulant was to enter. 
At length she came — a woman of commanding figure 
and almost dazzling beauty — accompanied by one of 
the professed, and — as she swept towards the altar in 
a bridal dress of white satin, covered with a robe of 
richest lace, and a wreath of orange flowers on her 
stately head, whence depended a veil that could have 
enveloped her \v^hole person, with diamonds flashing 
from her throat, her bosom, her arms, her hands, and 
the braids of raven hair that bound her majestic 


60 


THE PAELOR BOARDER. 


brow — tbe splendor of the boly place seemed dimmed 
by her presence. It was the “PaHor Boarder,” who, 
after the solemn service of the altar, having been re- 
conducted from the chapel, returned a little while 
after, shorn of her beautiful tresses, and wearing the 
black dress and unbecoming cap of the order, and 
thereafter to be known by the name of Madame 
Harral. 

In a community made up principally of ladies of 
foreign birth, the admission of one to whom the Eng- 
lish language was her mother tongue, was regarded 
with much complacency by those most interested in 
its success, and Madame Harral, at the earliest period 
prescribed by the rules of the house, was placed in 
charge of the English class to which I then belonged, 
and in this capacity she soon came to be as much 
beloved for her kind and cheerful disposition, as she 
had been admired and pitied before for her surpass- 
ing beauty and uncomplaining sorrow. 

The mistresses of our classes were always with us 
at our recreations, and Madame Harral, as our Eng- 
lish mistress, accompanied us, of course, in our 
English recreations; that is, the recreations in which 
we were permitted to speak English ; and at such 
times, when disposed to listen, she would seek to 
amuse us with stories of what she had known, or 
heard, or read of in the world, through which, how- 
ever, she always managed to convey some lesson for 
the correction of the faults and foibles of those under 
her care. 

How, with all my admitted excellences, I do not 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


61 


claim to be wholly perfect. Indeed I know I am not : 
for, though I may not often do what is wrong, I am 
conscious of sometimes leaving undone that which I 
should do. But this defect in my character was more 
apparent some years ago than it is now — though, I 
dare say, some of you think it sufficiently prominent 
still — and I have since thought, that it was as much for 
my improvement as the general entertainment, that 
Madame Harral one evening related to us the follow- 
ing story. 


1 . 


THE OLD HOUSE AND ITS OCCUPANTS. 

On a street which, in its march through the city, 
improvement had not yet reached — -a narrow, crooked, 
ill-paved, and generally ill-lighted street — stood, 
within a quarter of a century, a house, over the tiled 
roof of which, it was said, almost a hundred years had 
passed, leaving behind them, however, very few marks 
of age, and fewer still of decay, for it had been built 
at a great outlay of money and labor, for the per- 
manent residence of the proprietor and his family, 
and was regarded at one time with a respect amount- 
ing almost to veneration, by the tenants and poorer 
neighbors of its aristocratic owner. It had been a 
cheerful dwelling, too, in its day, sombre as it now ap- 
peared, with its old-fashioned front of very dark brick. 


62 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


Light feet, bearing lighter hearts,, had tripped across 
its uncarpeted, well-waxed floors, and up and down 
its dark oaken stairs. Bright faces had peered from 
its small windows ; and song, and laughter, and the 
merry shouts of children, had sounded through its 
low, wainscoted rooms. But the song, and laugh, 
and shout, were hushed long ago, and succeeded by 
the groan of pain, the sob of grief, and the cry of 
mortal anguish. One by one the bright faces had 
disappeared from the windows, and grown dim and 
faded and old. The bounding steps of youth had 
become heavy, as the hearts they bore sank daily 
beneath the weight of years and sorrows, until they 
found a resting-place in the grave ; and the once cheer- 
ful dwelling 3ras finally abandoned to silence and to 
gloom. 

But, though abandoned to silence and to gl<?om, the 
old house was not wholly uninhabited. In a close 
back room, into which the sun never entered, might 
have been seen almost any day in the year, a very old 
lady, whose thin gray hair was hidden beneath a close- 
fitting black silk cap, with a narrow black lace border, 
her small person wrapped in a chintz dressing-gown, 
of a once gay pattern, and her feet buried in thick 
carpet shoes, seated in a large easy-chair, and knitting 
as diligently as if her bread depended upon her in- 
dustry. And in the dark kitchen, rendered still darker 
by her presence, or passing in and out and through 
the house, like a huge shadow, might have been seen 
a very black old servant, who, born a slave of the 
family, had, when declared free by law, remained in 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


63 


voluntary servitude with the mistress whose attendant 
she had been when both were in their girlhood ; and 
gliding noiselessly through the dark and cheerless 
rooms, or looking sadly out of the parlor window 
upon the busy life of the street, might also have been 
seen a little girl, some ten or twelve years old, whose 
dress, for all days and all seasons, was a black bom- 
bazet frock, made high in the neck, an apron of blue 
and white check, and coarse shoes and stockings. 


IL 

CLAUDINE. 

The early home of this little girl had been one of 
poverty, but was not therefore an unhappy one, for 
peace and love had found a shelter beneath its hum- 
ble roof. But the home to which she was brought 
upon the death of her parents, though often told by 
old Dinchy — sometimes rebukingly, sometimes en- 
couragingly — of her good fortune in having found it, 
was to her a most unhappy one, and the heart of the 
orphan Claudine, with that painful yearning which is 
called home-sichness^ wandered hourly back to the 
wayside cottage, where her early childhood had been 
passed, and where, if she had not been exempt from 
privations, she had at least known affection. 

Yet, in justice to the old lady, who was the grand- 


64 


THE PAKLOK BOARDER. 


aunt of Claudine, I would not have it thought that 
she had any wish to make the child unhappy. Very 
far from it. When made acquainted, by old Dinchy, 
with the destitute condition in which she was left by 
the death of her parents, she had opened the doors to 
her which had been closed against almost every one 
for years; ungrudgingly since had fed and clothed 
her, if not luxuriously or gayly, certainly without 
stint and comfortably, and was perfectly willing that 
she should make herself as happy as possible. But 
the little kindness that time, and ill-health, and a nat- 
urally unsocial disposition, had left in the old lady’s 
heart was by no means demonstrative, and though 
she never chid, she never used any endearing terms 
towards her young relative, whose presence she 
seemed rather to endure than to covet, and Claudine, 
who had never been addressed by mother or father, 
but by some diminutive, some pet name, expressive 
of affection, was chilled by the coldness of her aunt, 
which she mistook for aversion, and never approached 
her, except in the performance of some duty. This 
indeed was seldom; for old Dinchy would yield to 
none her prerogative of waiting upon “ Miss Gfitty,” 
or “Young Missis,” as she generally called her mis- 
tress, and Claudine was not permitted to enter her 
aunt’s apartment oftener than once a day, to dust and 
put it in order, except when she was required to hold 
upon her hands the yarn from which the old lady 
wound the balls for her knitting. 

Her new home was therefore any thing but a happy 
one to poor Claudine ; and it was very sad to see a 
creature so young wandering listlessly about by her- 


THE PAKLOR BOARDER. 


65 


self, without pet or plaything, through the dim and 
silent rooms, or up and down what had once been a 
garden, but was now nothing but a piece of inclosed 
ground, filled with dead trees and shrubs, and rank 
and worthless weeds. Once, for the sake of com- 
panionship, she tried to make friends with a vaga- 
bond cat, that she used sometimes to meet in the 
yard, but the vicious creature turned upon the hand 
that would have caressed it, and bit it in a most 
shocking manner. Thenceforth she sought no new 
acquaintances. Had she been sent to school, or put 
to work, or even been permitted to go once a week to 
Church, she would have been most grateful, for it 
would have relieved her of the burthen that idleness 
was fastening upon her. But she had been well 
taught by her parents, and, because she could read 
with ease and write a fair hand, her aunt believed she 
had received quite education enough. Then, except 
the little sewing she did now and then for herself and 
Dinchy, no work was required at her hands ; and as 
to going to Church, that was out of the question. 
The father of Claudine, in marrying a beautiful girl 
of foreign birth, had, much to the displeasure of his 
family, conformed to the religion of his wife, and in 
that religion he wished his child to be reared. But 
this wish, which, as she had a superstitious reverence 
for ^le wishes of the dead, she could not actively op- 
pose, the old lady determined to do nothing to ad- 
vance, and by not providing Claudine with clothes 
proper, as she thought, to wear, she as effectually pre- 
vented her going to Church as if she had forbidden 
her to do so. 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


III. 

AN INCIDENT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

One afternoon, while looking envyingly out at 
some children at play in the street, a handsome lad, a 
little older than herself, tapped at the window at which 
she was sitting, and said, 

“ Please let me go to the top of your house, after 
my sister’s bird, that has got out of its cage.” 

“ I can’t do that,” answered Claudine in a whisper, 
just raising the window sufficient to let her words es- 
cape ; “ but if you will stay here a few minutes, I will 
go up and try to catch the bird for you.” And taking 
off her shoes, she stole up to the roof, where the little 
truant was perched in the full enjoyment of his new- 
found liberty, and looking sideways in triumph at the 
cage, hanging from an upper story window oft the 
house opposite, from which he had fled. But his tri- 
umph was short; for not suspecting the approach of 
an enemy in the rear, he was easily retaken, and sent 
back to the custody of his loving mistress. 

This incident, trifling as it seemed, began an era in 
the life of Claudine. The grateful mistress of th^ lit- 
tle deserter came over with her brother, to thank the 
captor for the service rendered, and an immediate 
friendship was formed between them. Thenceforth 
no day passed during the warm months that Louise 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


67 


and her brother did not come to the window, where 
Claudine now sat every afternoon, to have a little chat 
upon subjects that, to a casual listener, would seem 
the most unimportant in the world, but which they 
found so interesting that it often held them engaged 
for an hour at a time ; and when the cold weather 
came, and they could no longer stand at the window, 
the visitors ventured — timidly at first — to enter the 
small dark parlor, and have their chat, though with 
bated breath, within doors. Besides this, to amuse 
their friend during the hours they could not be with 
her, they would frequently leave with her a book 
that had interested themselves— some poem, perhaps, 
or novel, in which the world beyond the walls of 
that old house was described as something hardly 
less beautiful than the Eden our first parents lost — 
and the heart of the recluse was soon filled with im- 
patient longings to go forth into the world, and behold 
for herself that which had been painted to her so fair. 

Yes, over and over again, when sitting in the dark, 
cold parlor, with her hands wound in her apron to 
keep them warm, admiring the bright, hospitable 
aspect of the house opposite, where her friend Louise, 
and her friend’s brother, Gustave, were happy in the 
presence and affection of dear and indulgent parents, 
would the spirit of the young girl rise up in rebellion 
against the vassalage in which she was held, by her 
feebleness and poverty, and she resolve at all hazards 
to abandon the home with which Providence had pro- 
vided her, and seek one among those who could better 
sympathize with her than her invalid aunt and her 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


aunt’s old servant Dinchy. But these resolves passed 
away with the darkness of which they were born, 
and again sbe returned to her monotonous duties and 
listless wanderings, or the perusal of some book, that 
was again to fill her mind with wild and impracticable 
schemes for the improvement of her state, and her 
heart with desires of that happiness which wealth and 
distinction only are supposed able to bestow. Yet, 
in all these schemes of improvement, in all these de- 
sires for wealth and worldly distinction, Claudine was 
not wholly selfish. In the most magnificent of her 
castles in Spain, the most splendid and luxurious 
apartments were always reserved for the use of her 
friend Louise and her friend’s brother, and capacious 
halls stood always open for the reception of the home- 
less. And thus passed the years of this young girl’s 
life, until she stood upon the verge of womanhood. 


IV. 

A REVELATION. 

The parents of Louise, if not positively rich, were 
among those who are said to be “ well to do in the 
world,” with some pretensions to fashion; and as their 
children grew up, their house became a very gay one, 
for both Louise and her brother were very charming 
young people. In the nightly gayeties of the house 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


69 


Claudine was frequently urged to join, but Her inva- 
riable answer to all these solicitations was, that she 
could not. At length Louise insisted to know the 
cause of these repeated refusals, when, to put a stop 
to all further importunity, she candidly confessed she 
had not a dress fit to wear beyond the threshold of 
her own door. 

“Then the more shame for your aunt that you 
have not,” exclaimed Louise indignantly, “who, as 
every body knows, is immensely rich.” 

“ My aunt rich ?” said Claudine. “ 0, impossible I” 

“Not at all impossible, my dear; for though she 
hasn’t the heart to spend sixpence upon herself any 
more than upon you, she is rich enough to buy this 
whole block, and the next too, if she chose.” 

“My aunt rich?” continued Claudine still incredu- 
lously. 

“Yes, rich ; and so will you be, if you chance to 
outlive her, for pa says, she hasn’t a relation in the 
world but you, and, unless she should take a religious 
turn just before she dies, as miserly people sometimes 
do, and leave the money she can no longer keep, to 
some society, for the propogation in foreign lands of 
the Gospel that she has never listened to in her own, 
the whole of her vast wealth must one day come to 
you.” 

“My aunt so rich!” murmured Claudine, when 
Louise had left her. “ My aunt so rich, and I, her 
heiress, doomed to a life of utter uselessness — a worth- 
less weed in the one neglected corner of the fair gar- 
den of the world 1 while with a portion, a very small 


70 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


portion of her hoarded wealth, I might, with the tal- 
ents with which Heaven has endowed me, rise to my 
proper station in society, and win happiness for my- 
self, and the esteem of others. Lonely, idle, ignorant, 
what a life for one who, when she dies — ” 

She paused. A terrible thought, like some huge 
black monster, forc^ itself upon her mental gaze. 
At first she shrank from it in horror, and would have 
driven it from her instantly and forever, but it would 
not leave her, and day and night for many and many 
a week it remained ever before her, until, from long 
familiarity, she came at last to regard it with some 
degree of complacency. In all this time Claudine 
had never given utterance to the wish that her aunt 
would die ; — she believed that in the most secret re- 
cesses of her heart she had never harbored such a 
wish; — ^yet the thought, that in her present weak 
state, for she was now confined to her bed, she might 
be suddenly surprised by death — strangled in one of 
her severe fits of coughing, or smothered by turning 
upon her face in her sleep — was often dwelt upon 
with a feeling akin to pleasure, when accompanied by 
the hope of one day seeing herself mistress of the 
wealth the old lady was supposed to possess ; and this 
feeling proved, that, although she would not for the 
whole world have dipped her hands in the blood of 
her aged relation, or been in any way accessory to 
her death, or have abridged by one short moment the 
life now drawing rapidly to a close, she would hardly 
have regarded as evil any chance by which this only 
barrier in her way to fortune mightsbe removed. 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


71 


y. 

A WISH REALIZED. 

I HAVE said that Dinch j was tenacious of her pre- 
rogative, as sole attendant upon her mistress, and 
would yield her right to none. But I should have 
added, except on prayer or watch-meeting nights at 
old Zion. Dinchy had a powerful voice, and it was 
always found an able auxiliary, when any tyro in 
such matters attempted to hold forth in prayer or 
exhortation, for she so timed her interjaculatory 
“Amen!” “Glory!” “Come, Lord!” or favorite 
verse, 

** Shout on I pray on 1 we’re gaining groun’ 1 
Halle-halle-lu-yer 1 

Ole Satan’s kingdom mus’ come down 1 
Glory, halle-lu-yer I” 


as to divert the attention of the congregation from 
whatever was particularly weak or unmeaning in the 
language of “ de gifted broder,” and was therefore a 
highly-esteemed and useful member of her church. 
At such times, Claudine was permitted to take her 
place at the bedside of the invalid, but with the 
strictest injunctions, not for the world to leave her a 
minute alone, or neglect to give her a drink the mo- 
ment she took one of her “ spells.” 

One evening Dinchy went out to a “protracted 


72 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


meeting,” and Claudine was left alone with her aunt. 
The night was warm, and the room in which she sat 
almost suffocating, and finding the old lady to sleep 
soundly for more than an hour, she thought she would 
just steal down to one of the parlor windows, for a 
little fresh air, taking the precaution, however, of 
leaving the doors between them open, that she might 
hear the least movement of her charge. 

It was a beautiful evening, and the street was filled 
with an animated crowd, passing to and fro in obedi- 
ence to the calls of business or pleasure, and the cheer- 
ful sounds of human voices, mingled with delightful 
music, came pleasantly upon her ear, as she sat at the 
open window, watching hour after hour a merry party 
assembled in the home of Louise, to celebrate the 
twenty-first birthday of Gustave. Suddenly the evil 
thought, that had become but too familiar to her mind 
of late, returned, but this time rather in the form of a 
wish, and she muttered with a feeling of impatience, 

If my aunt were dead, I might now be a participant 
of the pleasure of which I am only a distant and an 
envying witness!” She started, for at that moment 
the dark form of Dinchy passed between her and the 
light of the street, and hastily rising, returned to the 
chamber of her aunt, to which her shrieks imme- 
diately summoned the old servant. 

The old lady had evidently endeavored to help 
herself to the drink that stood on the table near her, 
for she was drawn up quite high in the bed, and 
turned almost upon her face, with one hand stretched 
over the table, from which the cup, that lay broken 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


73 


on the floor, had, no doubt, fallen. And thus she was 
found bj her niece — dead / 

The horror of Claudine is not to be described. It 
is true that she had not actively participated in the 
death of her aunt; yet she could not conceal from 
herself, that an event, which could not have been long 
deferred, had been precipitated by her neglect, and 
when she thought how earnestly she had desired it 
but a minute before, she felt that in her heart she was 
not wholly guiltless of murder. The certain posses- 
sion of the long-coveted wealth ; the introduction into 
cheerful and refined society, that soon after followed, 
and the admiration of many distinguished persons of 
the opposite sex, all failed to pluck from her memory 
the rooted sorrow” left by the guilty consciousness 
of her cruel negligence. 

Then, to divert her thoughts from the one painful 
subject, she turned her mind to the acquisition of 
knowledge, and, to what is higher than knowledge in 
the world’s regard, the accomplishments supposed to 
be necessary to one in her new position. But all 
would not do. A wounded conscience is hard to 
cure, and the wound of her conscience was deep and 
rankling. 

4 


74 


THE PARLOK BOARDER. 


VI. 

A CATASTROPHE. 

But Religion, which ever comes with healing on 
her wings,” did for her that which timeconld not, and 
her wound, if not wholly cured, ceased at last to 
rankle, and the agony of remorse was succeeded by 
the tender regret that always accompanies sincere con- 
trition. Her heart, which had long seemed dead to 
all kindly influences, pulsed anew at the voice of 
affection, and Claudine became a wife — the wife of 
Gustave — and believed herself as secure of happiness 
now as if she had indeed taken “ a bond of fate.” 

And so believing, and in that belief almost forget- 
ful of all that had made the misery of her past — grief 
for her early loss, her long privations and wasted 
life, her bitter remorse — she went forth with her 
young, and handsome, and most gloriously gifted 
husband upon their wedding tour. Then, when she 
beheld for the first time, in all the imposing majesty, 
the picturesque beauty of which she had sometimes 
read, but oftener vaguely dreamed, the monarch 
mountain, with his forest crown, glittering in the 
golden light of day, and the peaceful valley slumber- 
ing in happy security at his feet ; the torrent leaping 
from rock to rock, and flashing like molten diamonds 
in the sun ; the deep calm river, sweeping proudly on 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


75 


towards the sea; the inverted heaven of the seemingly 
shoreless lake; but, above all, the unimagined, un- 
imaginable wonder of Niagara, whose voice seemed 
the continuous utterings of the thunders of the 
Apocalypse, she felt the significance of the oft- 
repeated phrase, “the Divinity of Nature,” and but 
that she had lately studied in the school of Christian 
philosophy, might, like too many others, have con- 
founded cause and effect, and given to the works of 
God the worship due only to God himself. 

A month, in which a thousand things were stored 
in the memory to enrich the poverty of some future 
hour, passed rapidly away, and Claudine and her 
husband turned their faces homeward ; and having 
left the crowded cars, in which they had come from 

one of the cities of the lakes, took a carriage at 

to make the rest of their journey to the place whence 
they were to take the steamboat for home. The 
morning was beautiful, and, as the hearts of the happy 
pair beat as lightly in their breasts as those of the 
birds that wantoned among the trees by the wayside, 
the pleasant word and cheerful laugh, that followed 
an occasional allusion to some of the incidents of their 
travel, gave speed to the wings of time, and shortened 
by many a mj_le the road along which they were 
whirled. 

But as the day advanced their conversation flagged. 
Pleasant remarks were still made, and still replied to 
as pleasantly as ever. But they were less continuous ; 
and for many minutes both at last remained silent. 
Claudine had fallen into a reverie, but rousing her- 


76 


THE PARLOR BOARDER. 


self, she now addressed a remark to Gustave. He did 
not reply ; and upon repeating it, she turned towards 
him. He sat bolt iipright, with his eyes fixed upon 
her. 

“ Gustave I” she shrieked, and drew him wildly to- 
wards her. Her cry fell upon closed ears, her arms 
embraced the dead I 


“Dear I” said one of the youngest of us, drawing a 
long breath, “how shocking I” Then, after a pause, 
she asked, 

“But poor Claudine, Madame ; what became of 
her ? Is she dead ?” 

“ Yes, my dear, — to the world,” she answered, and 
rising abruptly, walked into the chapel. We then 
knew that Madame Harral had been telling us her 
own story. 


“Although,” said Frank, whom Kate had called 
upon for the next story, “I have never been so for- 
tunate as to discover a manuscript, nor hear from the 
lips of the hero or heroine of one of life’s tragedies, or 
comedies, any of its wonderful events, I do assure you 
that the story I am about to relate, for the delight and 
edification of this respectable company, however I 
may have come by the facts narrated, is quite as true 
as either of those to which we have lately listened 
with so much interest, not to say improvement. 


'§nv (jf 


A VERITABLE HISTORY BY FRANK CONWAY. 


For Banquo’s issue have I filed my soul. 

Macbeth. 


1 . 

EXTREMES MEET — THE REVELLERS AND THE BEGGAR 
WITH A VIEW OF A FAMILY SCENE. 

The down-town clocks of the good city of Gotham, 
beginning with that of the Middle Dutch — now the 
Post Office — had just ceased, and the up- town ones, 
led on by St. John’s — St. John’s was up-town then, 
whatever the people about Union Square and the 
Fifth Avenue may think at the present time — had 
just begun to strike the hour of twelve, when, one in- 
tensely cold night in the winter of 18 — , two young 
men, of fashionable exterior, might have been seen 
leaving a house in the neighborhood of the Park, cele- 
brated- for its good wines, and notorious for its high 
play. The elder, who was humming 


78 


THE HEIR OF 


“ Spare a ha’penny, spare a ha’penny, 

Spare a poor little gipsy a ha’penny,” 

made popular by the exquisite singing of Mrs. Hol- 
man — the great Gantatrice of that day — then in the 
zenith of her fame — was probably not more than 
two or three and thirty, and, but for the marks of 
early indulgence stamped upon his countenance, 
would have been considered handsome, and the 
younger, who could scarcely have seen his twenty- 
eighth year, was decidedly so, notwithstanding his 
present jaded appearance, the consequence, no doubt, 
of the strong excitement in which the last few hours 
had been passed. 

As they turned into Broadway, they were accosted 
by one of those wretched little mendicants — the em- 
bryo thieves and vagabonds of the city — who are suf- 
fered to infest the streets, with the usual whine, 

“ Please, sir, gim’e a penny to buy my moder a loaf 
o’ bread.” 

The elder, with the indifference of one accustomed 
to such solicitations, was passing on ; but his compan- 
ion, touched by the pitiful tone of the shivering little 
creature before him, a child apparently not more than 
five or six years old, 


“ Whose looped and windowed raggedness” 

was scarce enough to keep him from freezing, stopped, 
and putting his hand into his pocket for the purpose 
of drawing thence a few cents, after a minute or two’s 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


79 


ineffectual fumbling, with rather a blank air, pulled 
it out empty. 

“ By George, Brenton,” said he, “ I’m cleaned out. 
“ Lend me a sixpence, if you have it.” 

“ I’ve nothing less than a quarter,” answered Bren- 
ton, and was moving on. 

“ Well, lend me that.” 

“Nonsense, my good fellow, you don’t mean to 
throw away a quarter on that little impostor ?” 

“I’m afraid,” was the reply, “that I’ve thrown 
away more to-night on less deserving objects. So lend 
me the quarter.” 

Brenton did so ; and no sooner was the hand of 
the child closed upon the young man’s bounty, than 
he darted across the street with all possible speed — 
that, however, was not much, for his little limbs 
seemed hardly able to support the weight of his ema- 
ciated body. 

“I’ll bet you ten to one, Ketchum,” said Brenton, 
“ that that little rascal’s mother never gets a sight of 
your quarter.” 

“ Done !” returned Ketchum. “But how are we to 
know ?” 

“ By tracking the young fox to his hole.” 

“ Agreed !” was the ready response. And the young 
men set off in immediate pursuit of the lessening figure 
of the little beggar. 

They proceeded up Broadway a short distance above 
Washington Hall — where Stewart’s now is — when 
turning to the right, they continued to follow the 
child, now scarcely discernible amid the deep shadows 


80 


THE HEIR OF 


of the houses that seemed almost to meet above their 
heads, until he finally disappeared in the cellar of an 
old frame building, then tottering to its fall. Here 
they stopped. 

“ A drawn bet,” said Ketchum. 

“ Not yet,” returned his companion, who had dis- 
covered a feeble light struggling through the rags that 
were intended to fill an unglazed window at their feet, 
and stooping down, he partially removed the stuffing, 
when looking into a wretched hole, unfloored and 
unplastered, beheld the object of Ketch urn’s charity 
exhibiting the coin to a young woman, the picture of 
hopeless wretchedness, who, by the flickering light of 
a wick drawn through the eye of a button and float- 
ing in oil, or rather grease, contained in a yellow 
earthen saucer, sat busily employed in making a pair 
of very coarse fustian trowsers. 

“Look ’ere, mammy,” said the little fellow, while 
pleasure for a moment lit up his pretty, though pallid, 
features, “ see wot I got.” 

“ What !” she exclaimed, as she took the money 
from his hand, while a smile gave a momentary 
brightness to a countenance that must have once been 
very beautiful, “two shillings!” 

“Two shillings?” echoed an old woman covered 
with rags, who sat cowering over a ricketty sheet-iron 
stove, in which the last handful of shavings had long 
been burned out. “ How did you get it, Jeffy, my 
son ? Did you hook it ?” 

“ No, granny,” replied the child, with some show 
of indignation, “ I didn’t hook it. A gem’man gim 
it me.” 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


81 


“ Some drunken feller, I s’pose,” mumbled the 
crone, “that didn’t know a quarter from a cent.” 

“ Bless him !” added the young woman, “ whoever 
he is. He has given bread to the starving.” 

“ I have lost,” said Brenton, as he rose from the 
window, when Ketchum, from the promptings of cu- 
riosity, stooped to take a peep into the cellar, but 
starting suddenly back, with an exclamation of hor- 
ror, would have fallen but for the ready hand of his 
companion. 

“What’s the matter?” demanded the latter. 

“Mere giddiness,” was the answer. “But let us 
go.” 

Taking the arm of Brenton, the young men were 
turning to retrace their steps, when they were jostled 
by a fellow who came reeling down the street. Growl- 
ing an oath, he bade them stand out of the way, and 
upon Brenton replying with another, the ruffian 
showed a disposition to use his fists, and but for the 
interference of Ketchum, who almost dragged his 
companion from the spot, would have followed up 
this demonstration with a blow. He then staggered 
on to the cellar that the friends had just left, and 
which he entered with an evident determination of 
venting the wrath, excited by those without, upon the 
poor creatures who acknowledged his authority within. 

“ What,” he hiccupped, with an oath too dreadful 
to be repeated, “ are you up for till this time o’ night, 
wasting light and fire?” 

“ Fire I” exclaimed the crone, with a derisive laugh, 
“ it’s hard to waste what we ha’n’t had.” 

4 * 


82 


THE HEIR OF 


“ Shut up, old woman ; — give us none o’ your lip.” 

“ I won’t shut up. It’s hard indeed if I can’t say 
what I like in my own house.” 

“ Your house ?” 

“ Yes, my house. What house had ye but mine 
when you got married, I’d jest like to know? And 
what have you had since?” 

“ Married I” he repeated, the word seeming to give 
a new direction to his thoughts. “ A blessed marriage 
it has turned out to me.” 

“ Too good for the likes of you, anuff sight.” 

“ Mother !” interposed the meek wife. 

“ Hold yer tongue, Sophy,” answered the old wo- 
man, whose spirit was now up. “If you’m fool 
enough to put up with his tantrums, I a’nt. A pretty 
thing, indeed, for him to come with his authority, 
when we’ve been freezing and starving here till this 
hour o’ the night, waiting for what that poor child 
mought get for us.” 

“ What did you get, Jeff?” asked the man, whose 
attention had by the old woman’s remark been drawn 
to the child. 

“Two shillins,” answered the little fellow, but 
with evident unwillingness. 

“ Well, fork it over.” 

“ I gin it to mammy.” 

“What did Wash get?” 

“Washington,” answered Sophy with some hesita- 
tion, “ has not been out to-night. He was too ill.” 

“ Too lazy, you mean ; — the blasted sheep I But 
let me have the money.” 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


83 


“I was just going out with it, George,” she said, 
timidly, “ for something for the children. I have not 
been able to get any work this week, except this one 
pair of trowsers, which came so late to-day that I 
could not get them done ; and we have had nothing 
to eat since morning.” 

“ Whose fault was that?” growled her husband. “I 
took nuthin from you.” 

“No, nor brought us nuthin nyther,” retorted his 
mother. 

“ Come, old woman, no more of your slack. Give 
me the money, madam, and I’ll go over to Stillwell’s 
and get what you want.” 

With a foreboding sigh, his poor wife gave him the 
money, and, as he was about to leave the cellar, his 
mother said, 

“Take the pitcher with you, George, and bring us 
a little gin ; and tell ’em to put plenty of peppermint 
in it, to drive the wind from our stomachs.” 

Like an obedient son, he went to a shelf, and tak- 
ing thence a common brown pitcherj without a handle, 
departed. But hours passed and he did not return. 
Poor little JefiP, worn out with cold, hunger, and fa- 
tigue, had crawled to the rags where his brother lay, 
and was soon sound asleep ; the old woman in a little 
while followed his example, breathing, instead of 
prayers, 

“ Curses not loud but deep” 

upon the head of her undutiful son ; but the spirit- 
broken wife sat awaiting his return in cold and dark- 


84 


THE HEIR OF 


ness, for her scanty supply of grease was soon ex- 
hausted, until the noise in the street told her it was 
day, when he came staggering in, and throwing him- 
self upon their wretched apology for a bed, was soon 
lost in the heavy sleep of drunkenness. Sophy did 
not attempt to sleep. But, when the morning was 
sufficiently advanced, putting on an old straw bonnet 
and throwing around her a worn and faded shawl, 
took a basket on her arm and went forth, to seek 
from the charity of strangers food for her famishing 
family. 


11 . 

SAINTS ABROAD NOT ALWAYS SAINTS AT HOME. 

— SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. KETCHUM AND HER 

FAMILY. 

The young men returned to Broadway, and when 
they got into the neighborhood of the Park theatre, 
Ketchum proposed that they should go into Charley 
Irish’s and get something to eat, and into Charley 
Irish’s they accordingly went. He was evidently a 
good deal excited; but Brenton, attributing what ap- 
peared strange in his manner to the rather free use of 
the wine which had been supplied them at the gaming- 
house, thought, or at least said, nothing about it, but 
proceeded to discuss his supper as soon as it was set 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


85 


before him. But Ketchum could not eat. Some- 
thing there was which “ stuck in his throat” that pre- 
vented him swallowing any thing but a glass or two 
of wine. At length he broke forth with what he 
meant to be a very gay laugh, but which had none 
of the heart’s gayety in its sound, and said, 

“Do you know, Brenton^^’m inclined to believe 
that the poor little wretch we saw in the street to- 
night is my own son.” 

“Your son?” asked his companion. “What do 
you mean ?” , 

“Just what I say. The young woman we saw in 
the cellar is Sophy Ingraham as sure as I am Edward 
Ketchum ; and if that boy is hers — of which there 
can be little doubt — I very much fear he is also mine.” 
Then, to make himself perfectly understood by Bren- 
ton, he entered upon the history of certain years of 
his life, with which, as well as other events intimately 
connected with my story, I will proceed in my own 
way to make you acquainted. 

The father of Edward Ketchum died when his son 
was but an infant in fact as well as in law, leaving 
him to the guardianship of his mother, one of the 
“unco guid” as Burns has it, being a member of all 
Bible and Tract Societies, Sabbath-school Unions, and 
every thing of that sort in the city, in which are 
sown, in the name of a religion of peace and love, 
the seeds of hatred and discord and all uncharitable- 
ness. Besides her pretensions to uncommon piety, 
she was most ostentatiously charitable, having always 
on her list, as visiting member of half a score of as- 


86 


THE HEIR OF 


soriations for the relief of the poor, a number of old 
women to whom she distributed bibles and boluses, 
sermons and soup, and pamphlets and potatoes, while 
she supplied a few poor young women with abun- 
dance of work at very low wages, and plenty of 
tracts but little time for reading; and might have 
been seen any fine Sunday marshalling a troop of 
ragged and hungry-looking urchins, who were in- 
tended to swell the grand annual Sunday-school pro- 
cession, in which she always bore a most distinguished 
part. 

With avocations so numerous and multifarious 
abroad, it can hardly be supposed that much time 
could be given by Mrs. Ketchum to the affairs of her 
family. But to make amends to her son for the want 
of parental care, she sent him to the best, that is to 
say, the most expensive schools in the city, prepara- 
tory to his admission into old Columbia, and supplied 
at the same time, without stint and without hesitation, 
every want, nay, every extravagance of one constitu- 
tionally gay, and who was, moreover, determined to 
make the most of the short time allotted him on 
earth for, as he thought, the purpose of enjoyment. 
As to her servants, if they did but perform the duties 
required of them, and attend with decorum at the 
morning and evening prayers and other pious exer- 
cises of the family, she did not seem to consider them 
worth a thought — except when at a loss for conversa- 
tion among her religious friends. 

In the family, or rather among the servants of Mrs. 
Ketchum, was one possessing peculiar claims to her 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


87 


kindness and regard. First, as a destitute orphan — 
for the poor and friendless have a right to the protec- 
tion of the rich and powerful ; — and secondly, as a 
near relation of the husband to whom she was in- 
debted for her present position in society, for all her 
wealth had been derived from him. But, forgetful 
alike of what was due to the child of her adoption, 
and respect to the memory of her husband, she suf- 
fered Sophy Ingraham to grow up in ignorance, and 
to perform the services of a menial in her family. 
Her excuses for this heartless conduct were, that the 
intellect of poor Soph}?- was too weak to bear cultiva- 
tion, and that one who had nothing to depend on but 
the bounty of friends, should be able to earn her own 
living. And these excuses were considered valid by 
the pious friends of the rich and charitable Mrs. 
Ketchum. 

Mrs. Ketchum was right in saying that the intellect 
of Sophy was weak. Had it not been, she would 
hardly have submitted to the indignity of being 
treated as servant by those who should have re- 
ceived her as an equal. But Mrs. Ketch urn’s neglect 
of the orphan rose, not so much from the low opinion 
she entertained of the mind of the poor girl, as fear 
of what her beauty might produce. Sophy was beau- 
tiful, with a beauty resembling some exquisite picture 
of the Madonna — that of a serious and holy inno- 
cence — and might, nay, must, if properly brought 
forward in society, attract the notice of Edward, and 
this notice might ultimately lead to a marriage of the 
cousins,' a result which, however natural, would be 


88 


THE HEIR OF 


by no means agreeable to Mrs. Ketch um, who in- 
tended Edward for a relation of her own. The pre- 
caution of the good lady was, however, of no avail. 
Edward had been attracted by the beauty of Sophy, 
and was not slow in making her acquainted with his 
admiration of her; and she, who had hitherto been 
treated with marked neglect, could not fail to be 
highly gratified by his attention. This he soon per- 
ceived; and, by professing a love for the simple- 
minded girl that he did not very seriously feel, made 
himself master of her heart. The power he had thus 
obtained he was ungenerous enough to abuse ; and in 
a paroxysm of virtuous indignation, Mrs. Ketchum 
turned the unfortunate Sophy into the street, and 
banished her son to the country for six whole weeks 
— in the shooting season. . 

The situation of the wretched girl was indeed a 
desolate one. With the exception of the Ketchums, 
she knew not that she had a relation in the world, 
and there was no one upon whose kindness she could 
pretend to any claim. She wandered about from 
early morning until almost evening, yet found no 
place of shelter, and she shuddered as the fear pressed 
itself upon her, that she must spend the coming night 
without the cover of a roof. At length, overcome 
by weakness of body and anguish of heart, she sat 
herself down on the steps of a stately mansion, and 
began to weep. Here she naturally attracted the no- 
tice of many, some of whom would stop for a mo- 
ment, make a gross or uncharitable remark, and then 
pass on their way without an effort to relieve even by 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


89 


one kind word the distress they could not fail to see, 
until one came by who recognized her. This was 
Betty Mallison, a poor woman who had been occa- 
sionally employed at Mrs. Ketchum’s in washing and 
house-cleaning. Betty, though a little intemperate, 
was by no means heartless, and, upon learning the 
cause of poor Sophy’s sorrow, was filled with indig- 
nation at the inhuman conduct of Mrs. Ketchum, and 
in the kindest manner offered to take the unhappy 
girl home with her ; an offer which, as may well be 
supposed, was readily accepted ; and in the miserable 
abode of this poor woman Sophy Ingraham, at the 
early age of sixteen, became a mother. 

Betty Mallison, like Mrs. Ketchum, was a widow, 
and like her, too, the mother of an only child. But, 
unlike that lady, she had formed no matrimonial plans 
for her son ; so that when George, who had been long 
absent at sea, on his return to the maternal roof, 
within a year after Sophy had found shelter under it, 
offered himself to that young woman for a husband, 
it was with the full approbation of his mother ; for the 
patient industry by which Sophy not only supported 
herself and her babe, but contrived to add considera- 
bly to the comforts of her old friend, had secured the 
regard of Betty, who hoped by this marriage to bind 
this gentle and grateful creature to her for life. 

At first Sophy was disposed to give a decided neg- 
ative to the offer of George, for her heart was still too 
full of him for whose sake she had suffered so severely 
to admit another object. But when she considered 
that by so doing she must disoblige, not only the son, 


90 


THE HEIR OF 


but his kind-hearted mother, and expose herself to the 
necessity of seeking another home ; and where, for 
one situated as she was, could this be found? — and 
believing that George would be, as he promised, “ a 
father to her boy,” she yielded a reluctant consent, and 
became his wife. 

For the first year of their marriage the united exer- 
tions of husband and wife enabled them to live very 
comfortably. But in the second, things changed rap- 
idly with them for the worse. Sophy, a second time 
a mother, had fallen into ill health, and George, a 
strong, active young fellow, who as a stevedore need 
seldom be out of work, had contracted such habits of 
intemperance that, except in very hurried times, no 
one would employ him. The sickness of the wife and 
intemperance of the husband soon brought them into 
such a state of poverty and destitution, that they were 
glad to find a shelter in the wretched hole in which 
we have just seen them, and were forced to depend 
for their subsistence — with the exception of the very 
little slop-shop work poor Sophy could get, and an 
occasional hour’s scrubbing by Betty — upon the cas* 
ual bounty of strangers, and that bounty solicited hy 
the feeble voices of two little creatures — the elder a 
little more than eight, and the younger but six years, 
old. 

In his story Ketchum had concealed whatever he 
knew of his relationship to Sophy Ingraham, and 
glossed over as much as possible his mother’s treat- 
ment of that unfortunate girl. As a sort of justifica- 
tion of his conduct towards her— something altogether 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


91 


unnecessary when we consider who was his auditor — 
he pleaded the thoughtlessness natural to a youth of 
eighteen, and concluded by asking the advice of his 
companion as to what course he ought to pursue in 
regard to the child. 

“Leave him where he is,” was the answer. 

“ 0 no, Brenton,” said Ketchum, earnestly, “I can- 
not do that. I cannot run the risk of being again 
asked in the street for a penny by my own son. I’ll 
tell you what I’ve been thinking of, and in this matter 
I shall want your assistance. I will endeavor to pre- 
vail upon his mother to give him up, and, if necessary, 
pay her well for it, and, judging from appearances, a 
little money would go a great way with her just now. 
I will then send him out to the “ Purchase,” and in 
the family of old Schoonhoven, my hcum tenens there, 
he will be respectably brought up.” 

“ And at a proper age introduce him to the world 
as your son and heir,” added Brenton, with a slight 
sneer. 

“0 no, not quite so bad as that. I certainly do 
not mean that he shall bear my name, nor shall any 
one, except yourself, know of the relationship between 
us. If you will but go to Sophy and cajole or bully 
her out of the boy — either of which, unless she is 
greatly altered, may be easily done — ^you will do me 
a very essential service. I can easily pa,ss him upon 
Schoonhoven for an orphan that has been left to my 
care, and with a fair education, and a knowledge of 
agriculture, he will be able, when he becomes a man, 
to do very well for himself.” 


92 


THE HEIR OF 


Heartless as lie was, Brenton could see nothing in 
this scheme, for the future usefulness and consequent 
happiness of the child, to oppose, and promising to do 
all that was required of him, they rose and left the 
house. 


III. 

NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION. GRANNY 

green’s LITTLE KATE AND HER NEW FRIENDS. 

The scraps gathered by poor Sophy in her “ devi- 
ous morning walk” had been nothing more than a 
whet to the appetites of her family, who had had no 
food from an early hour of the preceding day, and the 
old woman felt it incumbent upon her to try to pro- 
cure something that would satisfy the present demands 
of hunger. Accordingly, throwing around her the 
tattered remains of a once fashionable plaid cloak, 
which mayhap had in its day graced the figure of a 
Broadway belle, and, taking the basket on her arm, 
she called the boys to her side, and sallied forth. 
But thinking that the greater the number of helpless 
little creatures that accompanied her, the greater 
would be her success in her appeals to the pity of the 
charitably disposed, she determined upon pressing 
into her service any child she might chance to meet, 
and for this purpose accosted a little thing that she 
found playing on the walk, with. 


EETCHUM PURCHASE. 


93 


“ How is de pitty ittle lady dis mornin ?” using as 
nearly as possible the language of the child, whose 
bright face was turned up towards her with a smile 
that dimpled her rosy cheeks, as she answered, 

“ O, va’ee well, sank’ee, aunty.” 

*‘How is g’anma, dear?” 

“ G’anny abed, va’ee sick,” answered the child, with 
a most serious face. 

“Won’t de ittle lady go up de street wis aunty, and 
git some goodies ?” 

“ G’anny ’ill want Titty when she wake.” 

“But she won’t wake till Titty come back,” said 
Betty, coaxingly, “ and den Titty can give g’anny 
some goodies, too.” 

The promise of “ goodies” for her grandmother was 
sufficient to induce little Kate to consent, and putting 
her little fat hand into the skinny one of the old wo- 
man, went away with her in great glee. 

Betty and her little brood then went from door to 
door, until the poor hungry boys became very tired, 
and little Kate began to worry to return to her grand- 
mother, but with very indifferent success. From 
some houses they were turned away with harsh refu- 
sals, when gentle words might just as well have been 
given, for they cost as little, and what they received 
at others was thrown grudgingly into the old woman’s 
basket, with less care than a kind master would give 
a plate of broken meat to a dog. At length, at the 
basement door of a small, but extremely clean looking 
house, which was opened to Betty’s knock by a tidy 
Irish girl, they were invited to enter and warm them- 


94 ' 


THE HEIR OF 


selves, for the children looked very cold, and the 
boys, who had neither shoes nor stockings, were 
really almost frozen. 

The invitation was gladly accepted, and they fol- 
lowed the girl into her kitchen, where a fire of good 
hickory was cheerfully burning, at which she seated 
them; and, after placing on a chair before the old 
woman a cup of hot coffee with some bread and meat, 
and giving to each of the children a good thick slice 
of bread thickly buttered, she carefully locked the 
door of her pantry, and, putting the key into her 
pocket, went up stairs to the lady of the house. 

This lady, who, wrapped in a large shawl, was sit- 
ting at her breakfast in a small, but neatly-furnished 
back parlor, might, to a stranger, have passed for 
thirty-five, although, in fact, not yet quite twenty- 
eight. Her face, which in her girlhood must have 
been eminently beautiful, was thin to emaciation, and 
pale even to ghastliness, when contrasted with the 
border of the black crape cap that covered her raven 
hair, a single curl only of which having escaped from 
confinement had fallen on her left cheek. She ap- 
peared tall as she sat, and though much wasted by 
disease of body or sickness of the mind, her figure 
w;as still good. 

“ Well, Judy?” she asked in a very sweet voice, as 
the servant entered. 

“ 0, mem,” was the reply, “there’s a poor ould cra- 
tur below, wid tree of the purtiest childer you ever 
set eyes on. Two little boys, that luk for all the 
world like twins, an’ a’most naked, the poor dears; 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


95 


an’ the weeniest bit of a garl, that’s a parfect born 
beauty. She says they’re her gran’childer ; an’ their 
mother, who’s a widdy, is lyin’ at home very sick, an’ 
she’s no wan in the world wide to do any thing for 
them, barrin’ herself, poor soul ! an’ she wants to know 
if you’ve ever an owld gown, or a petticoat, or any 
thing o’ that sort, that you cud give her to cover 
them.” 

“ I’m afraid, Judy,” said the lady with a smile, “that 
any clothes which I may have to spare, would be of 
very little use to the boys or the little girl, though 
they might, perhaps, serve the mother or grand- 
mother. However, you can see if there is any thing 
left of the bundle I gave you last week. But before 
you proceed on this errand, bring up the little girl, 
that I may see what your ‘ born beauty’ is like.” 

With joyful alacrity Judy flew to obey, and in a 
few minutes little Kate was introduced into the pres- 
ence of the lady, who was very much pleased with 
the beauty of the child, and surprised to find how 
comfortably she was dressed ; for though her frock 
was of a coarse stuff, it was whole and clean, and her 
little feet were defended against the severity of the 
weather by strong shoes and good wo-^llen stockings. 

Kate, much abashed at first, was unwilling to hold 
up her head, or answer any of the questions that 
were put to her. But the kindness of the lady, who 
spake encouragingly to her, and forced upon her ac- 
ceptance a piece of toast from her own plate, in a lit- 
tle while reassured her, and she looked around in 
evident admiration of all she beheld ; and when the 


96 


THE HEIR OF 


lady asked her her name, she answered without em- 
barrassment, 

“ Titty Bally.” 

Kitty Barry ? That’s a very pretty name. What 
do you call your brothers?” 

Titty dot no broder.” 

^‘Are not the little boys down stairs your bro- 
thers ?” ^ 

“ Ko, lady. Titty dot no broder.” 

*‘But the woman you came with is your grand- 
mother ?” 

^‘Ko, lady. Titty g’anny sick abed.” 

Is it not your mother who is sick ?” 

“ Titty dot no mamma — she dead !” answered the 
child, with a melancholy shake of her little head. 

Poor little dear !” sighed the lady. “Then you 
live,” she continued, “with this poor woman?” 

“ No, lady,” said Kate, a little impatiently, “ Titty 
live wis Gr’anny G’een.” 

“ Who is Granny Green ?” ^ 

“ Titty own g’anny.” 

“Where does Granny Green live?” 

To this question she gave in answer the name and 
number of the street in which she lived, with more 
correctness than could have been expected from one 
of her years, for she could not certainly have num- 
bered more than three, 

“Judy,” said the lady, addressing her hand maiden, 
“it is my opinion that the woman down stairs is little 
better than an impostor.” 

“A U)hk\ mem?” 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


97 


“An impostor, Judy; and has inveigled this poor 
child from her home, for the purpose of practising 
upon our feelings.” 

“ I’ll warrant now, it’s jist as you say, mem, an’ yet, 
for all that, I can’t help thinkin’ that the poor cratur’s 
very much in want this blessed minute,” returned the 
kind-hearted Judy. 

“ Well, step down, and bring her up to me.” 

The first part of this order was instantly obeyed, 
but the second was not so easily performed. Betty 
Mallison, justly fearing exposure from the artlessness 
of little Kate, decamped with the boys as soon as 
Judy had taken the child up stairs, and the poor 
little creature she decoyed from home, for her own 
purposes, was left to be returned to her grandmother 
or not, just as it might happen. 

“If my little angel had lived,” said the lady, after 
she had suffered Judy to “unpack her heart” with 
abuse of “ the stravaguin’ ould vagabone,” as she was 
pleased to call the worthy Betty, “she would be just 
about the size of this child. But she’s in heaven 
now.” 

“ Ko misdoubt in the world of that, mem,” returned 
Judy; “for ’twas meself that seen to the christenin’ 
of her.” 

“You did, Judy; and however people may call in 
question the necessity of infant baptism, there is no 
one will dispute the disinterested kindness which 
prompted you, my good girl, at a late hour of a 
stormy night, to bring to my babe a priest of your 
own faith, to perform what you believed to be a sav- 
5 


98 


THE HEIR OF 


ing rite.” The lady was silent for a few minutes, and 
then resumed. 

“I have been thinking, Judy, that this poor mother- 
less little creature might, in some measure, supply to 
me the place of my lost darling. You shall take her 
home, and if the Granny Green, of whom she speaks, 
can be prevailed upon to give her to me, I will adopt 
and bring her up as my own.” 

“Indeed, mem,” said Judy, “’twas Goodness itself, 
I’m thinkin’, that put that thought into yer heart, for 
the poor child wud be much* better aff wid you than 
in that street beyant ; an’ sure you’d never miss the 
bit or the sup you’d give her, or the duds o’ clothes 
she’d wear, an’ who knows what she wud do for you 
in return when I’m dead an’ gone ?” 

“Well, Judy, take her, and wrap her up well, and 
return her to her grandmother ; and, if you find our 
scheme to be practicable, we will put it into imme- 
diate execution.” 

Although Judy did not pretend to understand all 
the “dicksonary words” used by the lady, she was 
seldom at a loss for the meaning of any of her direc- 
tions, and now proceeded with right good will to obey 
them. She found Granny Green the occupant of a^ 
small garret room, poorly furnished, but perfectly 
clean. She was sick, as the child had said, but not in 
bed, having risen as soon as she missed her little Kate, 
and was now, although staggering under a load of 
illness, preparing to leave-the house in search of her 
lost treasure. Her fears for the child had been great, 
and as great now was her joy, and a perfect torrent 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


99 


of blessings was poured upon Judy by the grateful 
old woman, for having restored to her “the light of 
her eyes and the life-pulse of her heart I” 


lY. 

POVERTY, THOUGH A TRIAL, IS NOT A CURSE. — 
GRANNY GREEN. 

Granny Green had once known the blessings of 
“health, peace, and competence.” Her husband, a 
good, sober and industrious mechanic, had been an 
excellent provider ; but he had been taken suddenly 
from her many years before, leaving her a widow in a 
strange land, with an infant in her arms, the only sur- 
vivor of a numerous family. But Granny Green was 
then young and healthy, and being a good seamstress, 
supported herself and child in comparative comfort. 
That child grew up to womanhood, the pride and de- 
light of her mother’s heart, and richly deserving of 
the affection that was so lavishly bestowed upon her ; 
and at the age of twenty became the wife of a young 
man of most estimable character, who held ^ respect- 
able situation in one of the most considerable mercan- 
tile houses in the city. The business of his employers 
having taken him to the south a few months after 
their marriage, he there took the yellow fever and 
died. The news of this melancholy event was brought 


100 


THE HEIR OF 


to his wife by the very vessel in which she had ex- 
pected his return, and the shock proving too much 
for one in her feeble state, she died in giving birth to 
little Kate. 

Undue exertion had some time before much im- 
paired the sight of Granny Green, and now, that she 
was called upon to provide for the little orphan, she 
was no longer able to obtain a livelihood by her 
needle. But she neither arraigned the providence of 
God, nor sat down idly and bewailed her own help- 
lessness. With, the little money that remained after 
defraying the expenses of her daughter’s funeral, she 
furnished a stand with apples, cakes, nuts, and things 
of that kind, by the sale of which she was able to 
keep herself and her infant charge above want ; and 
though her business had now, in consequence of her 
illness, been several days suspended, she had neither 
solicited aid from others, nor incurred the debt of a 
single cent. 

When J udy first broke to her the wish of the lady 
in regard to the child, the pale face of the poor old 
woman wore a most troubled look, and she remained 
silent for a minute or two, as if debating with herself 
what reply she ought to make. At length she an- 
swered, 

“ Tell the lady that I am not insensible to the kind- 
ness of her offer, and from my very heart I thank her 
for it. But I cannot accept it. I know I have not 
long to live, but, for the little time I am to remain 
here, life would be deprived of all that makes it val- 
uable if I were to lose my little darling. She has 


KETCHUM PURCLASE. 


101 


lain in my bosom every nigbt since her birth, and my 
heart would be cold without her. Besides, it is my 
wish that she should be brought up in the faith of all 
belonging to her, and I know too well the little store 
that is set by that faith in this country ; and I hope, 
when I am taken from her, that she may find a home 
in the asylum under the care of the good Sisters of 
Charity, who will be sure to teach her the way she 
should go.” 

“0, if it’s the religion that’s troublin’ you, don’t 
give yerself any onasiness on that score. I’m a Cath- 
olic mesef, though, to my shame be it spoken, a very 
poor wan, and I’ll see that she’s brought up in the 
right way, an’ I know the lady ’ill never object to 
that, for though she’s nothin’, God help her! she 
hasn’t the laste dislike in the world to our Church, 
for didn’t she Jet me bring the clargy to christen her 
own babe when it was a dyin’ ? a thing she wudn’t ’a 
done, you know, if she didn’t like huz. Then, av 
coorse, she’ll never hinder me from bringin’ up the 
little dear in the religion of her forefathers. Now, 
supposin’ the lady was to give her hand an’ word that 
she wud bring her up as you wud wish, an’ wud never 
ax to take her from you as long as you cud keep her — 
an’ that you may live to be over her many a long day 
to come I — wud you be willin’ to give her to her when 
it shall plaise the Lord to take you to himself?” 

“I would not only be willing,” answered Granny 
Green, “ but with my dying breath would thank her 
for her kindness to the homeless orphan.” 

“Well, then, never mind. I’ll settle it all. Now 


102 


THE HEIR OF 


go you to bed, an’ I’ll fix you sometbin’ ’ill fasten the 
life in you. An’, that no other stravaguin ould vaga- 
bone may coax the darlin’ away wid her while you 
sleep. I’ll jist take her back home wid me, an’ make 
her an’ the lady a little better acquented.” 

The lady was happy to get the child, even on 
Granny Green’s conditions ; and from that time until 
the day of the old woman’s death, little Kate spent 
most of her viking hours in her new home, although 
she was brought back every night to sleep under the 
roof with her grandmother. But she no longer lay 
in her bosom. The cold, too long neglected, was now 
changed to a hasty consumption, and the physician, 
who had been called in by Kate’s new mamma, would 
not permit the little orphan any longer to share the 
bed of the dying woman. This was at first consid- 
ered hard by both the invalid and her pet ; but both 
in a little while became reconciled to it; and this par- 
tial separation rendered the final one less difficult to 
be borne by the youthful survivor. 


V. 

MONEY, THE LEVER OF ARCHIMEDES, CAN MOVE THE 
WORLD. THE OFFER AND ITS ACCEPTANCE. A 
mother’s grief. 

About the time that the lady was first brought by 
Judy into the garret of Granny Green, being about 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


103 


seven o’clock in tke evening of the day on which she 
had made the acquaintance of little Kate, a person in 
a dark box coat, buttoned up to bis chin, and a glazed 
cap, drawn down over his eyes, entered the Brown 
Jug, a low porter house immediately opposite the 
cellar occupied by the Mallisons. The ground floor 
of this house was divided ink) two rooms, the outer 
of which was the bar, containing a couple of long 
benches, a few stools, or rather backless chairs, and 
two or three unpainted pine tables, on which were 
lying packs of very dirty cards, some boxes of domi- 
noes, and pieces of chalk ; and the inner was a kind 
of saloon, in which a number of ill-mannered, ill-look- 
ing fellows, and tawdrily dressed girls, were dancing 
to the screechings of a miserably cracked fiddle, played 
on by a lame and almost blind old negro, whose live- 
lihood depended upon the pitiful contributions of the 
frequenters of a house like this. 

Having called for a glass of beer, the stranger, while 
pretending to drink it, entered into conversation with 
the landlord upon that strange and most important 
topic — the weather, and after discussing the last snow 
storm, and offering some shrewd conjectures upon the 
probability of rather unsettled weather for some time 
to come, concluded by asking his host if he could tell 
him the name of the woman who occupied the oppo- 
site cellar. 

“ There’s two on them,” was the answer. 

“ I mean the younger.” 

“ Well, there’s no difference in them in one respect. 
Their name is Mallison.” 


104 


THE HEIR OF 


“ Then the young woman is married ?” 

“ That she is, to her misfortin.” 

“ So I should suppose, if her husband can afford 
her no better home than that cellar. Has she any 
children ?” 

“Yes, two, so near of a size they’d pass for twins, 
yet folks do say that both han’t the same right to the 
name they bear,” said the fellow, with a knowing wink. 

“ I have particular reasons,” continued the stranger, 
“ for wishing to see young Mrs. Mallison. Do you 
think I could do so?” 

“Hot knowing, can’t say,” he answered with an at- 
tempt at jocularity. “ But here’s her husband ; may 
be he can tell you.” And at that moment Mallison 
entered. 

“ George,” he continued, “here’s a gentleman what 
has got something very particular to say to your wife!” 
and he laughed a short, discordant laugh, that grated 
harshly on the ear of the stranger. 

“Well, sir,” said Mallison, roughly, “what have 
you to say to my wife ?” 

“Hothing, Mr. Mallison,” he answered, “that can- 
not as well be said to her husband. But before we 
proceed to business, let us have something to moisten 
our lips.” Hereupon he called for another glass of 
beer — although he had contrived, while talking to the 
man in the bar, to spill most of the former into a box 
of bar-room sweepings at his feet — and found it no 
difficult matter to prevail upon Mallison to drink, to 
their better acquaintance, which he did in “ a horn” as 
he called it, of brandy. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


105 


The stranger then withdrawing with his new ac- 
quaintance to the farthest table, opened the conversa- 
tion by saying, 

“ Mine is a strange errand, Mr. Mallison, but know- 
ing that I have to deal with one who understands the 
world, I have no fear that any misconstruction will 
be put upon my motives. The truth is, a friend of 
mine— an odd sort of fellow, but one who is rich 
enough to pay for the gratification of his humors — has 
taken a fancy to a child of yours — the elder, I think, 
of your boys — that he happened to meet in the street, 
and wishes very much to adopt him. I know it is 
asking a great deal of a parent to give up his child to 
a stranger — particularly his first born — but knowing 
the ability of my friend to provide handsomely for 
the boy, and fearing that times are not as good with 
you as they ought to be, I must honestly say, that I do 
not think anything could happen more advantageous 
to all parties. It would gratify the benevolent feel- 
ings of my friend ; secure a comfortable home to the 
child, and relieve you from a burthen which, at 
present, you seem very ill able to bear.’’ 

“ But see here. Mister,” interposed Mallison, “ han’t 
your friend got no name ?” 

“He has a name,” was the answer, in the same con- 
ciliating tone in which the stranger had hitherto 
spoken, “but I do not feel myself at liberty to give 
it, until I know how his offers are likely to be re- 
ceived.” 

“Well then,” said Mallison, doggedly, “we’ll talk 
no more about it. I’m not a goin’ to deal with a man 
in a mask.” 


106 


THE HEIR OF 


“ Nay, though contrary to my instructions, I cannot 
withhold from you what you have a perfect right to 
know. His name is Ketchum.” 

“ Edward Ketchum ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Hah I” exclaimed Mallison, with an oath, “I 
thought as much ! But look here. Mister Ketch- 
um ,” he added, starting to his feet, clenching his 

fists tightly, setting his teeth firmly, and looking 
fiercely into the face of the stranger ; when he was in- 
terrupted by the latter quietly saying, 

“ I am not the man you take me for.” 

“ You’re sure o’ that?” 

“ Perfectly,” answered the stranger with a smile. 

“ ’Tis well you a’n’t,” muttered Mallison, as he re- 
seated himself. “But,” he continued, “though you 
a’n’t Ketchum, I dare say you know all about him, 
and the rascally trick he played the poor girl that 
was brought up with him — his cousin into the bar- 
gain — now my wife? and that the boy, that passes for 
rny oldest, is in fact his own son ?” 

“You surprise me, Mr. Mallison,” said Brenton, for 
he it was, as you have all, no doubt, supposed from 
the first. “ I had no idea that my friend had any fur- 
ther interest in this child, than any stranger might 
have in one that should happen to please him for the 
moment.” And all this was uttered with such an air 
of truth that Mallison, who certainly was not disposed 
to receive without scruples all that he might hear, did 
not for a moment doubt his assertion, and his wrath- 
ful feelings towards the friend of Ketchum were con- 
siderably mollified. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


107 


“Well,” said he, “ now that you do know the natur 
of that man’s interest in the boy, what course would 
you advise me to take ?” 

“Why,” he replied, A^ith a look of the utmost can- 
dor, “ if I were in your place, I would most certainly 
wash my hands of the business at once, by insisting 
upon the father taking care of his child, for it is 
clearly the duty of every man to provide for his own.” 

“Oh, yes. But recollect, that boy has cost me a 
great deal to bring up so far.” — Bren ton thought of 
the street and the cellar, and could scarcely help 
laughing in the man’s face — “ and he’ll soon be big 
enough now to help me work, and so pay me back a 
part of what I’ve spent on him.” 

“ Well, now, supposing that Ketchum should be 
willing to pay you at once, for the trouble and ex- 
pense you have been at ?” 

“ Why, there’s sutbin in that, to be sure,” murmured 
Mallison, as if debating with himself the subject pro- 
posed for his consideration. Brenton saw his advan- 
tage, and followed it up by saying, 

“ I have no doubt he will be willing to remunerate 
you handsomely for what you have done. Indeed I 
do not think he v^tmld mind a hundred dollars — ” 

“ A hundred doll^^ !” exclaimed Mallison. “ Let 
me tell you, sir, that two hundred, no, nor three 
nyther, wouldn’t pay me for the care I’ve took of that 
boy.” 

“Well, Mr. Mallison, if I can prevail upon my 
friend — who, though rich, is by no means over ready ^ 
to part with his cash — to pay into your hands the sum 


108 


THE HEIR OF 


of two hundred dollars, may I tell him that yon are 
willing to relinquish all claim to the child?” 

“ Make it fifty more, and you may.” , 

“ Well then, two hundred and fifty be it,” said Bren- 
ton, rising ; “ and if at eight o’clock to-morrow even- 
ing you will call at No. — Greenwicli street, and ask 
for Mr. Jones, you shall receive the money. But 
upon one condition. You must sign a document in 
which you shall pledge yourself never to claim the 
boy, nor even appear to know him, if by any chance 
you should meet hereafter.” 

“ 0, that I’ll do,” returned Mallison, with every ap- 
pearance of satisfaction. 

“But,” resumed Brenton, returning after he had 
proceeded as far as the door, “ there is one thing I had 
forgotten. It is necessary he should have something 
decent to wear. Here is money ; and before you bring 
him over, take him to Chatham street, and get him a 
new rig.” And putting ten dollars into Mallison’s 
hand, he departed. 

George Mallison went home early that night, and, 
contrary to his wont, went home sober; for though 
he changed one of the notes given him by Brenton, it 
was only to procure a few articles for supper, with 
which he surprised his wife and delighted his mother 
and the children. But though sober, he was not a 
whit more pleasant than usual, and seemed in no 
humor to encourage the frolics of the boys, the 
younger of whom was as full of tricks as a little mon- 
‘key, but hurried them off to their beds, to which they 
were soon followed by old Betty ; and not until the 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


109 


breathing of the trio assured him that they slept, did 
he communicate to Sophy his interview with Brenton, 
and the determination to which that interview had 
led. That determination she strove with arguments, 
entreaties, and even with tears, to change, but all in 
vain ; and yielded at last, not to the reasons, but to 
the commands of her husband. Poor Sophy ! 

The next day — the short day of midwinter — was 
painfully long to both husband and wife; for the 
former, although he strove to stifle, could not silence 
altogether the voice within, that was continually cry- 
ing out in condemnation of the outrage against nature 
in the act he meditated ; and the heart of the latter 
was too full for utterance, but, with a meek submission 
to what she deemed inevitable, she sat herself down to 
adapt the few articles of second-hand clothing, that 
had been purchased in the morning, to the use for 
which they were intended. 

Evening at length came. All without was cold and 
dark ; and within — to one at least — all was desolate. 
The scanty supper was hastily and silently despatched, 
when Mallison, rising, bade Jeff prepare to attend 
him. The child obeyed without a word, although he 
wondered why, if he was going out as usual to beg, he 
should put on his new clothes. But, as they reached 
the door, the steps of the father and son were arrested 
by a sudden cry from Sophy, who, springing towards 
them, threw herself on her knees at the feet of her 
husband. 

“George,” she sobbed, “c?ear George, do not this 
dreadful wrong I Leave me my child. W e may be 


110 


THE HEIR OP 


poor — wretched, for a while; but better days will 
come. I am hourly growing stronger, and shall soon 
be able to work again. In a little while these boys 
will help us. Then do not separate us. Take not all 
that makes life endurable; — leave me my child!” 

“ Get up I” said Mallison harshly, trying, under a 
show of anger to conceal emotions which he thought 
derogatory to his manhood, “ and don’t play no more 
of your tragedy capers here ;” and pulling the child 
after him, quitted the cellar. 

For many minutes after the door closed between her 
and her child, poor Sophy remained on her knees, and 
wept as one that “ would not be comforted.” Then 
she became sensible of a little arm being entwined 
around her neck, and of a little cheek being pressed 
close to hers, and she heard in a young and tremulous 
voice, 

“Mammy, Washy is here.” 

“ My poor, poor darling I my only treasure now 1” 
she exclaimed, folding to her heart the little creature, 
who had taken this means to arrest her attention ; and, 
though she did not cease to weep, her grief became 
less absorbing and less loud. 


KETCHUM PUKCHASE. 


Ill 


YL 

MAN LOVES POWER. THE FOUNDER OF A FAMILY. 

Near the close of the eighteenth century, the grand- 
father of Edward Ketchum — a native of one of the 
Eastern Colonies, or States, as they are now called — 
became, by an easy purchase, the owner of a large 
tract of land in a part of the State of New York then 
very little known, but which has since risen into con- 
siderable importance. It had been held by the former 
proprietor by a grant from the Crown ; and from a 
wish to show by what means it had come into the hands 
of the present owner, as well as to perpetuate the 
name of his family, he dignified it with the title of 
“ Ketchum Purchase.” This he divided into farms, 
which he leased, upon very favorable terms, to men 
of small means, which drew around him a number of 
dependants, whose industry tended to increase the 
value of his property, and whose constant appeals to 
himself, in all matters of dispute, served to keep alive 
in his heart the consciousness of power. 

He had reserved to himself one farm, of a few hun- 
dred acres, which he intended as a model for the rest; 
every rood of which was kept in the most admirable 
condition. No fallen trees were allowed to lie and rot 
in the woodlands ; the pastures were clear of all rank 
and unwholesome grasses ; and you could hardly have 
found in the meadows a stone as big as a wren's egg- 


112 


THE HEIK OF 


The fields were well fenced ; the fruit and ornamental 
trees kept pruned, and free from insects, and the gar- 
dens beautifully laid out, and most carefully attended. 
All these things were subjects of great self-gratulation 
to him, who was ambitious of becoming the founder 
of a family, that was one day to rank with the Van 
Eensselaers, the Livingstons, the Schuylers, and 
others, who were then looked up to as the great ones 
of this little world, and that this family should have 
something more than fields, however well cultivated, 
to boast of, he built, a few years after, on an eminence, 
from which it could look proudly down npon the ple- 
bian residences of his tenantry, a large, staring square 
mansion of brick, painted all over of a fiery red, which, 
with its numerous outhouses of the same color, had, if 
not a very pleasing, certainly a very striking effect. 

General Ketchum, so he was called in his neighbor- 
hood — and, as he had been in some way attached to 
the army, for it was in the army he was said to have 
made his money — how was not exactly known — it is 
possible that he had a right to be so called — General 
Ketchum had been married before he left his native 
place, but was a widower, with one child, when he 
took possession of his new home ; and, for many years, 
was too much occupied with his farm and his house 
to think of a second matrimonial engagement. But 
think of it he at length did, when his house was com- 
pleted, and he felt the want of a housekeeper, particu- 
larly after he had become acquainted with the pretty 
Patty Ogden, when on a visit of business to the city 
oi' New York. He becamei a suitor for the fair hand 


KETCHUM PUECHASE. 


118 


of the dowerless beauty, and soon had reason to flat- 
ter himself with being a successful one ; for the lady 
had all but promised to become his, when he was in- 
discreet enough to introduce his son — now a fine 
young man — to his intended mother-in-law. The 
young people were mutually smitten with each other ; 
and, for once, affection, or fancy, got the better of 
worldly prudence in the heart of Miss Patty, and the 
father was rejected for the sake of the son. 

To the eye of the world. General Ketch um took the 
matter lightly, and made a handsome provision for 
the young couple upon their marriage. But he never 
forgot, nor forgave, the falsehood of his mistress ; for 
years after, having survived his son, that his property 
should not fall into the hands of his daughter-in-law, 
he declared in his Will, that, if his grandson should 
die without lawful issue, the whole of his estate should 
go to his cousin, Thomas Hooper, or his nearest male 
descendant. 


VIL 

CHANGE MAKES CHANGE. SOME ACCOUNT OF AN OLD 
FKIEND WITH A NEW NAME. 

Edward Ketchum was a mere lad when his grand- 
father died ; and the vast property to which he was 
heir, had been left to the management of the Schoon- 
hoven of whom mention has already been made, until 


114 


THE HEIR OF 


he should reach his majority. And so well did he 
discharge the duties of the trust which had been con- 
fided to him, that, when the owner became of age, the 
honest and efficient agent was continued in his place, 
and left in possession of the family mansion, which 
was seldom visited by Ketchum or his mother, except 
for a short time in the summer, when they endeavored 
to make the country endurable, by filling the house 
with their fashionable friends. 

To the care of this good man, and his kind old 
wife, little Jeff, under a new name, was committed ; 
and, though he often thought with regret of the home 
he had left — poor and miserable as it was — and some- 
times wept for the mother and the brother from whom 
he had been so unaccountably separated, the comforts 
that surrounded him, and the unvarying kindness with 
which he was treated, soon obliterated from his young 
mind all memory of the past; and in learning to an- 
swer to his new name, forgot that he had ever known 
any other. 

The instructions of Schoonhoven had been, to edu- 
cate the boy respectably, and to teach him whatever 
was necessary to the management of a farm, as he was 
destined for a useful rather than a brilliant career in 
life, having no friends upon whom he had any posi- 
tive claims for assistance, being indebted solely to the 
generosity of Ketchum, who had known his parents, 
for his present maintenance. The worthy agent en- 
deavored to fulfil these instructions to the letter. Kor 
were his endeavors unrewarded with success. At the 
age of twenty, Alfred Spencer, so I must for the fu- 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


115 


ture call our friend Jeff, was as well acquainted with 
English literature, and as good an agriculturist as any 
youth in the country. But he possessed other advan- 
tages, besides those of a good library, and a practical 
knowledge of farming. The periodical visits of the 
Ketchums and their friends naturally brought him ac- 
quainted with many young men, whose intercourse 
with the educated and refined, had given a polish to 
their manners, which he would have looked for in 
vain among those of his own immediate class ; and he 
endeavored to acquire something of this polish, with- 
out, however, attempting to copy the frivolity and 
vices of those to whom it belonged. In this he was 
eminently successful, and Alfred was soon looked 
upon by his rustic compeers as 

“ The glass of fashion and the mould of form.” 

Yet, notwithstanding his forgetfulness of the past, 
and due appreciation of the many blessings of his pres- 
ent condition, the situation of the young man was by no 
means an enviable one. The great want of our nature 
— the w'ant of kindred — could not be satisfied in him. 
Schoonhoven was a good, but rather formal old man, 
and his wife, though really a kind-hearted woman, 
had rather an ungracious way with her; and these 
faults of manner, which in parents would not have 
been thought worthy of notice, or looked upon, at 
the worst, as rather unpleasant peculiarities, had a 
chilling effect upon a young and ardent heart, that 
was yearning for sympathy ; and the isolation of his 


116 


THE HEIR OF 


state became to him day by day a subject of more 
constant and more painful thought. It is true, he 
would at times enter, with all the ardor of his age, 
into the sports and pleasures of those around him. 
But these moments of sunshine were followed by 
hours of the densest gloom, when he studiously 
avoided the haunts of men, to lose himself amid the 
mighty forest, that still rose up to defend the Purchase 
from the incursions of the northern invader. 

In one of his rambles, having passed through the 
forest, he came upon a small village that lay nestling 
in the bosom of a beautiful valley. His curiosity 
prompted him to take a nearer view of this Tempe, 
for which purpose he was obliged to cross a brook 
scarcely two yards wide, that ran at the foot of the 
hill on which he stood. To leap this was certainly 
no great feat; and, in making the attempt, he suc- 
ceeded with perfect ease. But alighting on a stone 
that had been loosened by late rains, it turned with 
him, and he sprained his ancle so severely, that he 
was able to proceed but a few rods, when he was 
obliged to sit down. 

This leap and its result had been witnessed from a 
clump of bushes, by a young girl and her companion, 
a woman of forty, who were gathering berries for the 
tea-table ; and both now came forward to offer their 
assistance ; an offer that was as gratefully accepted as 
it was considerately made ; and with many apologies 
for the trouble he was giving, and condemnations of 
his own heedlessness, he limped away towards the 
village with all the grace attainable. ^ 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


117 


VIIL 

woman’s influence is soon felt. 

The house to which Alfred had been conducted by 
his kind supporters, was at the outskirts of the vil- 
lage, and one of the most considerable dwellings in 
the neighborhood; being, although of wood, very 
substantially built, of two stories, with a handsome 
piazza running along the entire front, green shutters, 
and painted of a pure white. He was met at the 
door by a lady of prepossessing appearance, to whom 
the younger of his companions, with a very grave 
face, but rather mischievous twinkle of the eye, re- 
lated the cause of his mishap, and asked that some- 
thing might be done for his immediate relief. There- 
upon he was taken into a handsome parlor, and seated 
in a comfortable arm-chair; and while they are pre- 
paring the bone-set and vinegar, with the necessary 
bandages for the sprained limb, I will endeavor to in- 
troduce the females present more particularly to your 
notice. 

Mrs. Rollins, such was the name by which the lady 
was known among her neighbors, was, apparently, 
not less than fifty, although in reality much younger, 
of a figure still good, though certainly not what it had 
been, and with features still fine, although, it must be 
admitted, her beauty was rather on the wane. She 


118 


THE HEIR OE 


passed for a widow ; but as she never alluded, even 
the most remotely, to the “ dear departed,” her claim 
to this title was often questioned by the gossips of 
the village, who, however, were wise enough to keep 
their opinions from the knowledge of the stranger, 
who, besides, being a very useful person in the way 
of lending — and every one knows what inveterate 
borrowers a certain class of our countrywomen are — 
every now and then, assembled them all at her house, 
and gave, as every one would allow, an excellent cup 
of tea. The next in apparent age to Mrs. Eollins, 
was the “Help,” a stout, rather coarse-featured, but 
extremely good-natured looking woman of forty, who 
was looked upon, not only in, but out of the house, 
as a principal member of the family ; and the young- 
est of all, was a girl of not more than eighteen sum- 
mers ; whose lithe and graceful form, fair and laugh- 
ing face, merry hazel eyes, and locks of raven black- 
ness, which fell in a profusion of natural curls over 
her neck and shoulders, could not fail to attract the 
attention and admiration of the most careless be- 
holder, and no one who had looked upon her once, 
would be willing to deny himself the pleasure of look- 
ing upon her a second time. 

The young man’s sprain proved much more serious 
than any one had at first expected ; and for three days 
he was a tresspasser on the hospitality of Mrs. Eollins, 
who had taken the precaution to apprize his friends 
of the cause of his absence, by sending a message by 
Judy, the help, over to the Purchase, the morning 
after the accident. But though a prisoner, time was 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


119 


not suffered to hang heavily on his hands. The li- 
brary of Mrs. Kollins was not large; but, with some 
-of the light reading of the day, it contained many 
volumes of rare excellence, which were new to her 
guest ; and the conversation of the ladies, which run 

‘•From grave to gay, from lively to severe,” 

had something in it so new and delightful to him, 
that he almost wished his sprain had proved a frac- 
ture, that he might have a valid excuse for prolong- 
ing his stay. 


IX. 

love’s YOUNG DREAM. 

On the morning of the fourth day, Alfred returned 
home. But fearing he had not appeared sufficiently 
grateful to Mrs. Eollins, for the kindness she had 
shown him, he made it his business, two days after, 
to recross the mountain, — as the hill was called which 
separated the village of Iphigenia from the Purchase 
— that he might repeat to her his thanks, and beg 
Judy’s acceptance of a handsome green calico dress, 
which he had purchased for her of an Irish pedlar. 
His acquaintance with Mrs. and Miss Kollins was the 
commencement of a new era in the life of Alfred. 
He was no longer the moody, solitary being he had 


120 


THE HEIR OF 


been. Existence now possessed to him a positive 
value. A flower had sprung up amid the arid wastes 
that surrounded him. A star had at last broken 
through the dense clouds which had shut the heavens 
from his view. Not a week — scarcely a day — passed 
that he had not a book to borrow, or return, or to lend ; 
or a flower or a plant to take over, that was peculiarly 
suited to the soil of Mrs. Rollins’s garden; or a song, 
left perhaps by some of the fair visitors at the Pur- 
chase, which he thought might please Miss Rollins, 
who both sang and played delightfully. In short, 
Alfred Spencer was most incontrovertibly in love 
with Catherine Rollins. 

In the beautiful tale of “ Undine” we are told, that, 
until she loves, the heroine is without a soul. So was 
it with Alfred. Or, to speak more correctly, until he 
found himself in love, he was not conscious of the 
possession of one. Although naturally religious, and 
fond of vaguely contemplating the Deity in the won- 
ders of creation, his mind had never been directed to 
the consideration of his own immortality, or the tre- 
mendous price which had been paid for the redemption 
of man. It is true, that, in his childhood, good old 
Mrs. Schoonhoven often spoke to him of such places 
as heaven and hell, the future abodes of the good and 
the bad, and urged him to seek the one and avoid the 
other, which could be done only by a thorough knowl- 
edge of the Scriptures; a knowledge that poor Alfred 
was afraid he never should acquire, for though he had 
read them diligently for a long time, he could not 
pretend to understand them at all. It is true also, 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


121 


that he frequently accompanied his guardian and his 
wife to meeting ; but there was something so lifeless — 
so merely external in the religious exercises there 
gone through, that he always returned with feelings 
of weariness, not to say of disgust. But the beauti- 
ful service of the Catholic chapel, to which, for Kate’s 
sake, he now generally went, and the earnest devo- 
tion of the small congregation, had in them a vitality 
for which, among religious people and religious ob- 
servances, he had hitherto looked in vain ; and, like 
many of the poor and ignorant around him, he was 
in truth a Christian before he was well able to give a 
reason for the faith that was in him. 

Alfred was, indeed, in love with Catherine Eollins, 
and, this, too, long before he would have acknowl- 
edged to himself the possibility of such a thing. 
But when the certainty of this fact did force itself 
upon him — by the jealous twinge he experienced 
whenever any one of his own sex approached her, 
who might stand in the way of a rival to him — it 
brought with it at first no feeling of pleasure. Few 
ills in life are less endurable to the very young than 
unrequited love. And how could he hope for a re- 
turn of the affection he had so foolishly cherished, 
until it had obtained a perfect mastery over him, from 
one who, to become the sharer of his humble lot, 
must abandon the elegances, the refinements, and the 
endearments of a home in which she reigned with 
undisputed supremacy ? Or how could he expect — 
even were it possible for Kate to bestow a thought on 
one so unworthy of her— that Mrs. Rollins-^ 

6 


122 


THE HEIR OF 


no doubt, of honorable lineage — would give the child 
she loved with such engrossing affection, and whom 
she had educated to adorn the most exalted station, to 
one like him — poor — friendless — nameless? It was 
not to be thought of! And yet he did think of it. 
It is true he was now poor, friendless, nameless, as he 
said ; but did it follow that he was always to be s© ? 
Industry and enterprise are, in this country at least, 
seldom without their reward. Talent and integrity 
will always secure friends. And the only name worth 
possessing, is to be obtained by any one ambitious of 
it — the name of an honest man. Truly, indeed, may 
it be said that 

“ Hope is the lover’s staff 

and with this staff did Alfred contrive to support 
himself under the many difficulties of his situation. 

Certain it is, that Alfred Spencer was in love with 
Catherine Eollins. But was Catherine Rollins in love 
with him ? To this I am hardly prepared to answer 
in the affirmative. It is true, that his approach ap- 
peared always to give her pleasure; and his failure in 
coming, when she had reason to expect him, produced 
a feeling of disappointment which she was not always 
successful in concealing. But, then, it seemed that 
she wished for his presence for nothing but to torment 
him, which she did in a thousand ways ; yet so good- 
humoredly, withal, that although she seriously tried 
his patience at times, he found it impossible to be- 
come really angry with her, and was often forced to 
join in the laugh which had been raised at his ex- 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


123 


pense. In Mrs. Eollins, however, he had a never- 
failing friend; who, when she could not aid him in 
parrying the mischievous attacks of her daughter, 
enabled him to effect an honorable retreat. But a 
circumstance now occurred which — with rather an 
untoward opening — dissipated forever all the doubts 
that for many months past he had suffered to annoy 
him. 


X. 


“the course op true love never did run 

SMOOTH.” AN INTERFERENCE, AND ITS RESULT. 

One Sunday afternoon, as Alfred, with Mrs. and 
Miss Rollins, were returning from vespers at the 
chapel of the Holy Name, he was met in the road 
by two gentlemen on horseback, who proved to be 
Ketch um and Brenton, in whom fifteen years and 
better, had made but little apparent change. They 
were now on their annual visit to the Purchase, and 
were, of course, instantly recognized by the young 
man, who bowed slightly, while they, in deference, 
no doubt, to the ladies, raised their hats and bent al- 
most to the necks of their horses as they passed. At 
this moment the eyes of Mrs. Rollins and Brenton 
met, and a strange expression passed over the features 
of each. Surprise and anger were visible in the face 
of the gentleman, who reined in his horse for a mo- 


124 


THE HEIR OF 


ment as if. to stop, but immediately striking his spurs 
into him, rode on at a brisker pace than before; while 
the lady, becoming deadly pale, would, but for the 
ready support of Alfred and her daughter, have fallen 
to the earth. These signs of mutual and painful re* 
cognition could not escape the notice of the young 
people, but delicacy forbade them to make any audi- 
ble comment thereon, and in wondering silence they 
assisted Mrs. Kollins home. 

“Master Alf,” said Ketchum, laughing, as soon as 
they were out of hearing of the ladies, “ has proven 
his claim to the Ketchum blood, by his taste in female 
beauty. Did you notice the very pretty girl the ras- 
cal had in tow? But what’s the matter? He has 
not turned out a rival, I hope? Why, man, your 
brow is like a thunder cloud.” 

“ To tell the truth,” replied his companion, speak- 
ing through his clenched teeth, “ I never was in worse 
humor in my life. I have been deceived — outwitted 
— by a woman for whose capacity I have always had 
the most thorough contempt. You saw the elder of 
those females? That was Susan Rollins. And the 
child that I was, over and over again, assured had 
died in its infancy, I find here grown up to woman- 
hood, and in terms of intimacy with — ” He stopped. 

“ J/y son,” added Ketchum, a little proudly. 

“Yes, your son, and the son of Sophy i/a?/json,” 
retorted Brenton, bitterly. 

The color mounted to the cheek of Ketchum, but 
he checked the reply that rose to his lips, and the rest 
of the way was pursued in silence. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


125 


The next day, while Alfred was mowing by him- 
self in a meadow near the house, he was joined by 
Brenton, who, after a few trifling remarks upon the 
work in which he found him engaged, said to him : 

“ May I ask, you, Mr. Spencer, how long you have 
been acquainted with the ladies whom I saw you with 
yesterday ?” 

“ About a year,” was the answer of the young man, 
while a sudden blush deepened for a moment the 
healthful brown of his cheek. 

“Indeed! Your visits, I suppose, are both fre- 
quent and welcome ?” 

“ ISTot very frequent, sir. Once or twice a week, 
perhaps. How welcome they are, I cannot say. Mrs. 
Rollins, however, is always very kind.” 

“And the 3^oung lady? She is kind^ too, is she 
not ?” 

“ Miss Rollins could not be unkind to any one. 
But I cannot flatter myself that she is kinder to me 
than to others.” 

“Yet, or I am much mistaken, you have hopes of 
one day making her your wife.” 

“ This is a subject, Mr. Brenton, on which I will 
suffer no man to jest,” returned Alfred, with the air 
of one who was not to be trifled with. 

“ I am in no jesting humor, young man,” said Bren- 
ton, haughtily. “ But, in sober seriousness, I now 
tell you, that if you have ever dared to think of this 
young lady as anything more than an acquaintance, 
you must think so no longer.” 

“ Dared to think, sir ? Whatever my thoughts may 


126 


THE HEIR OF 


have been, is known only to my own heart ; and, but 
for this strange interference with that in which you 
have no right to meddle — ” 

“ But I have a right.” 

“ Kone, at least, that I will acknowledge. But for 
this uncalled-for interference, I should never, perhaps, 
have ventured to whisper, even to myself, the thoughts 
and hopes that have givgn a joy to my existence never 
known until now. The silence I have long, and with 
much difficulty, maintained, you force me to break ; 
and I most solemnly declare that I will not only dare 
to think of Miss Eollins as one day to be mine, but 
will use every honest means to make her so, unless her 
own lips shall bid me to forego all hope.” 

“ This is all very fine,” said Brenton, with a sneer, 
“ and would sound well from the hero of a melo 
drama. But ’tis not exactly to my taste. I am not 
likely to be turned from my purpose by a well-rounded 
period or two. Take the advice of one who certainly 
wishes you no ill. Grive up all thought of this Miss 
Eollins, as she is called, and choose for yourself some 
honest farmer’s daughter. By so doing, you will se- 
cure in me a firm and useful friend ; while, by acting 
counter to my commands, you will make for yourself 
an enemy, whose vengeance will pursue you to the 
last moment of your life.” So saying he turned upon 
his heel, and whistling a bar or two of a popular air, 
walked towards the house, while poor Alfred stood 
looking after him, leaning on his scythe, with indig- 
nation and perplexity strongly blended in his hand- 
some and ingenuous countenance. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


127 


He felt that a crisis in his fate had now arrived ; 
and he was not long in deciding how to act. Leav 
ing his work at an early hour of the afternoon, and 
dressing himself with unusual care, he walked over to 
the village. As he approached the house of Mrs. 
Eolliris, he saw Brenton come out, mount a horse that 
had been fastened to the paling, and ride away. For 
a moment his heart sank within him. The presence 
of this man at such a time he looked upon as an au- 
gury of evil. But, with a determination to know the 
worst at once, he quickened his pace, and entered the 
house, where he fgund Mrs. Kollins alone in the par- 
lor, in evident perturbation, and with traces of recent 
tears on her cheeks. He was about to retire when she 
prevented him by saying, as she extended to him her 
hand, 

“ I am glad you are come, Mr. Spencer. I was 
afraid we should have to leave without seeihg you.” 

“Leave, madam? Are you then going to leave 
us ?” he asked, with much surprise. 

“ For a time, at least,” she answered mournfully. 
“ The peace, which I have for the last few years en- 
joyed in this sequestered nook, has been suddenly 
and rudely broken in upon ; and I am forced to aban- 
don the home in which I had hoped to spend the rem- 
nant of a life, that has been anything but a happy 
one, to seek, in some distant scene, a refuge from the 
persecution with which I am now threatened.” 

“ What persecution, madam ? Do you fear perse- 
cution from Mr. Brenton ?” 

“ Unhappily, I do.” 


128 


THE HEIR OF 


“ May I know why ?” 

“ It is a long story, with which you may one day 
become acquainted ; but not now. I knew not, until 
yesterday, that Mr. Brenton ever visited this neigh- 
borhood. This I learned from what you said, after 
our return from vespers, of his intimacy with Mr. 
Ketchum. To avoid the risk of a second encounter, 
I made up my mind last night to make the excursion 
to Canada which I have had for some time in con- 
templation ; and his visit to-day has only hastened the 
execution of my plan. We leave early in the morn- 
ing.” 

“ But you will soon return ?” 

“ That is uncertain. My only wish at present is to 
avoid this man ; and my return to, or total abandon- 
ment of this place, depends altogether upon his move- 
ments. But believing that you feel sufficient interest 
in one who has few to care for her, to wish to know 
something of our future plans, I will write in a few 
weeks, and let you know them.” 

“Ah, madam,” he replied, “you little know the 
deep interest I feel in all that concerns you and yours. 
You will think me very presumptuous, I fear; — but, 
though your judgment may condemn, your goodness, 
I am sure, will pardon me. It is not to be expected, 
that one with eyes to see, and a heart to appreciate, 
the many beauties of mind and person that are so con- 
spicuous in Miss Kollins, could be acquainted with 
and not admire her. I, at least, could not. But a 
just sense of her merits, and my own unworthiness, 
has hitherto kept me silent. But I can remain silent 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


129 


no longer. I cannot think of being separated from 
her, without knowing whether I may not hope — at 
some future day — when, by honorable exertion, I shall 
have raised myself above the state of miserable de- 
pendence in which I have been placed — to claim an 
interest in her- affections, and have my claim allowed. 
Dear madam, do not, at least, forbid me to hope /” 

“ I do not. What the feelings of my daughter are, 
I cannot pretend to know. But I do not think them 
unfavorable to you. If she does not bid you despair, 
neither will I. The decision, however, must come 
from herself. She is now in the garden. Seek her 
there ; and let me know on your return how you 
have sped.” 

Alfred followed the first part of her directions at 
once ; but an hour, and more, elapsed before he re- 
turned to report progress. Mrs. Eollins looked up 
from some papers she was arranging in a small desk 
that lay open before her, and smiled as she read in 
his countenance the result of his interview with her 
daughter. Neither spake for a minute or two ; but 
the warm kiss he imprinted on the beautiful hand she 
had held out to him, told the joy and gratitude with 
which his heart was overflowing. At length the lady 
said, 

“You did not find Kate inexorable, then ?” 

“ She is an angel I” was his rapturous reply. 

“ Of course,” returned Mrs. Eollins, laughing. “ We 
are all angels — till we are wed. But, badinage apart, 
let me know what is arranged between you.” 

“ Nothing.” 

6 * 


130 


THE HEIR OF 


“Nothing?” 

“Nothing. Everything, dear madam, is left to 
you. With your approbation, she has promised to 
become mine, as soon as circumstances will justify 
our union in the eyes of the world, upon one condi- 
tion.” 

“ And that is ? — ” 

“That if, after serious inquiry into the tenets of 
her faith, I can, from honest conviction, subscribe to 
them. I assured her I could do so already. But she 
insists, that religion is a matter of too much impor- 
tance for man to be guided by his feelings in the 
choice of it ; and that her husband, must not only be 
of her own creed, but must be able to defend it, when 
wantonly attacked by ignorance or malevolence.” 

“ Dear Kate !” exclaimed Mrs. Kollins with affec- 
tionate admiration, “that is so like her! Without 
one spark of bigotry in her nature — one feeling of 
unkindness or illiberality towards any sect or people 
— so strong is her attachment to her own religion, 
that there is no earthly consideration which she would 
for a moment place in competition with it. What 
she believes God requires of her, that she will do at 
any sacrifice.” 

“ How much, my dear madam, is she indebted for 
this singleness of purpose to the early teachings of 
her mother.” 

“No, Mr. Spencer.” 

“ Why not call me Alfred ?” he asked. 

“No, Alfred. So far from being indebted to me 
for this devotion to the creed she professes, it is to her 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


131 


instrumentality I owe the happiness I now enjoy — of 
being a member of that body of which Christ is the 
head. This, however, is part of the story you have 
yet to hear, and I will not now enter upon it. All I 
will say at present is— follow Kate’s directions ; and, 
if ever you are in a condition to claim the hand of my 
daughter, you need have no fears that my consent will 
be withheld. Heaven bless you!” 

At an early hour next morning, Mrs. Eollins, her 
daughter, and the “ help,” took seats in the stage that 

passed through Iphigenia to W , to return no 

more. The house was soon after let ; and the furni- 
ture which could not be easily removed, was sold by 
a stranger, who came as Mrs. Rollins’s attorney ; and 
in a little while the most inveterate gossip in the vil- 
lage ceased to speak of Mrs. Rollins and her affairs. 

The certainty of possessing the love, and the con- 
ditional promise of the hand of Miss Rollins, were 
sufficient to urge Alfred to follow to the letter the 
directions he had received. A farm belonging to the 
Purchase was now vacant, through the foolish am- 
bition of the son of the late lessee, who, with the 
hope of becoming a gentleman, had abandoned the 
safe and honorable pursuits of agriculture to engage 
in commerce. This Alfred was allowed to take upon 
very favorable terms ; and, in less than two years, by 
untiring industry and admirable management, had 
made it one of the most beautiful and productive 
farms of the estate. But, while he cultivated the 
earth with so much care, he did not suffer his mind 
or his heart to lie fallow. For the improvement of 


182 


THE HEIR OF 


the one, he devoted a portion of his time to a careful 
perusal of the English classics; and for the other, 
studied to know and to practice the duties inculcated 
by that religion with which he had promised to make 
himself acquainted — a promise which, with the grace 
of heaven, and the kind instructions of the exemplary 
pastor of the church of the Holy Name, he was fully 
able to keep. But, in all this time, was he ignorant 
of the whereabouts of his beloved? Nous verrons. 
At present let us return to the fair city of Gotham, 
where, after an absence of seventeen years, our pres- 
ence may very well be required. 


XL 

THERE xS NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE TO PERSEVERANCE. 

SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF MRS. KETCHUM AND 

HER SON. 

Seventeen years ! It is a long time — to look for- 
ward to ! Almost one fourth of the ordinary life of 
man. Nearly one half of the earthly existence of a 
Burns and a Byron ; — more than that of a Shelly ; — 
and the far greater part of that of a Kirk White, a 
Keats, and a Dermody — and of one greater than any 
or all of these — the blessed Aloysius de Gonzaga. It 
was little more than seventeen years from the time 
that Napoleon assumed the command of the army in 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


183 


Italy, until the defeat of this same Napoleon in the 
fatal field of Waterloo, and yet volumes, scarcely to 
be numbered, have been filled with the glories and 
disasters of those few brief years I Seventeen years, 
then, could not have passed over any of those who, 
in the preceding part of this story, have been intro- 
duced to your notice, without leaving some traces of 
their footsteps. Yet the changes they had effected in 
some of our acquaintances were really less than one 
would be likely to suppose. Mrs. Ketchum was a 
little less active than we have heretofore seen her. 
But what she had lost in activity was gained in intol- 
erance. In her advertisements for servants now — and 
they were frequent — were always found the words 
“No Irish or Catholics need apply.” So far, indeed, 
had she carried her proscriptive policy, that her son, 
who certainly had arrived at years of maturity, if not 
of discretion, was obliged, for the sake of peace, to 
part with an excellent servant, who had had the inde- 
pendence to assert his right to worship God according 
to the dictates of his own conscience, instead of Mrs. 
Ketchum’s, and to engage a smooth-faced, canting fel- 
low, who had come recommended to the old lady by 
the reverend editor of a certain hebdomadal, in which 
the refuted calumnies of a by -gone age were unblush- 
ingly put forth as modern truths. Her son appeared 
very little changed for the worse. His complexion 
had become rather florid, perhaps, and a keen eye 
might have detected, among the thick curls of his 
dark brown locks, and in his well-trimmed whiskers, 
a gray hair or so ; but the admirable proportions of 


134 


THE HEIR OF 


his slight, but well-knit frame were in no degree im- 
paired, and his spirits retained much of the brilliancy 
and buoyancy of early and sinless youth. Brenton, 
however, was less fortunate. He had grown stout. 
The animal passions to which he had so long given 
unbounded sway, were not without leaving their 
traces on his once handsome countenance ; and, while 
he concealed, under a very natural wig, the loss of 
his hair, he found it expedient — not having faith in 
Batchelor or Brunei — to cutoff the whiskers of which 
he had once been vain, and cultivate instead a mous- 
tache and imperial, as less likely to betray the advance 
of age. But these changes were not great, when we 
consider the time that had elapsed, and the lives that 
two, at least, of the parties must have led. 

Mrs. Ketchum had long been importunate with her 
son to marry. Not that she wished to see another in 
possession of the authority which she had used so 
despotically ; but simply to preserve in her own fam- 
ily the estate which, should Edward die without issue, 
must revert to the relations off her late father-in-law, 
whose memory she now hated as heartily as she had 
once professed to love his person. But, though Edward 
Ketchum had been a worshipper at many shrines, he 
had yielded up his heart to none. His boyish attach- 
ment to Sophy Ingraham excepted, he had never 
known what it was really to love, and had always 
professed a perfect horror of matrimony — the death, 
as he called it, of man’s true liberty — and would 
often exclaim, in the words of the redoubtable Tom 
Thumb, 


KETGHUM PURCHASE. 


135 


“Although Hove the gentle Huncamunca, 

Yet at the thought of marriage I grow pale!” 

for his own observations, and the experience of his 
friend Brenton, had forced the conviction upon him, 
that the marriage state was any thing but a happy 
one. 

Continual droppings, however, will wear out a 
stone ; and the reiteration of the same wish for seven- 
teen years, and more, on the part of' his worthy pa- 
rent, could not fail at last of the desired effect ; and 
he finally consented to marry, if his mother would 
condescend to point out to him among the young 
ladies of her acquaintance, any one whom she might 
consider worthy to succeed her. This she readily un- 
dertook ; and named to him, at once, a near relation 
of her own. The lady was altogether unexception- 
able as far as face, figure, family, and fashion were 
concerned, and Edward'was fain to submit to the des- 
tiny he had provoked. After a very short courtship 
he proposed; and — to his deep chagrin — was ac- 
cepted ! This misfortune, I have no hesitation in 
saying, could not have happened had Brenton been at 
hand to prevent it. But, unhappily, he was then ab- 
sent; having gone to Washington to procure a situa- 
tion in the Customs for a bankrupt friend — who, fail- 
ing to manage his own affairs, felt himself fully com- 
petent to take charge of those of the public — and 
when he returned, the evil was consummated. Ed- 
ward Ketchum was a doomed man ! Brenton shrugged 
his shoulders, and uttered a witticism or two ; 


136 


THE HEIR OF 


but was too politic to say any thing that could be re- 
membered to his disadvantage at a future day, for 
Ketchum was too useful a friend to be lightly lost ; 
and from that time, until the night but one preceding 
the wedding morn, 

“All went merry as a marriage bell.” 

The father of Edward Ketch um had been a man of 
expensive tastes, and left at his demise, among other 
things of value, a great quantity of plate. This, how- 
ever, was allowed to lie undisturbed in a vault of one 
of the Wall street banks, except on extraordinary oc- 
casions, when Mrs. Ketchum would bring it out, and 
endeavor to astonish her friends by a display of her 
wealth at a dejeuner a-la-fourchette^ or dinner party. 
To do honor to an event fraught with so much conse- 
quence to the world — meaning herself — as the mar- 
riage of the heir of Ketchum Purchase, and determined 
that the wedding breakfast should be remembered for 
years to come, as the most magnificent thing of the 
kind ever witnessed in the ostentatious city of Gotham, 
the old lady had all the gold and silver plate of the 
family brought home and placed for safe keeping in 
an iron chest, which stood in a small room, or closet, 
that could be entered only by passing through Ed- 
ward’s sleeping room, in which were also deposited 
the jewels intended for the bridal gift, consisting of 
rings, bracelets, and a necklace to which was appended 
a cross 

“That jews might kiss and infidels adore,” 


V 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


137 


and the key of this closet was never entrusted to any 
hand but her own. 

It was now night — ^the night but one before the 
morning appointed for the wedding ; and, as the day 
had been one of unusual toil and bustle, the weari- 
ness of the servants was evident, when, at a later hour 
than common, they were summoned to prayers. 
Even the active spirit of Mrs. Ketchum seemed to 
flag; and she asked — which, however, was no rare 
circumstance — Joel Roberts, her son’s man, to read 
the chapter she had chosen for that evening’s instruc- 
tion, which he did, as Polonius says — “ with good ac- 
cent and good discretion.” They then retired ; and, 
in an hour after, the whole house was given up to 
silence and darkness, except the hall, where anight 
lamp was kept for Ketchum, who, having gone out as 
usual, with his friend Brenton, could not be expected 
home until a late hour. 

Roberts had been directed never to sit up for his 
master ; and now retired at the same time with the 
other servants. But, if he retired, it was not to sleep ; 
for when he found everything quiet, he left his room, 
and, without a light, and with his boots in his hand, 
descended the stairs with a noiseless step. He un- 
barred the back door and went out, and proceeding to 
the foot of the garden, opened a door in the wall, and 
entered an alley, where he pulled on his boots. The 
night was “ dark as Erebus but the worthy Joel had 
trodden that path too often to find any difficulty in 
making his way, and walked on, without hesitation, 
until he found himself in the great thoroughfare of 
the city. 


138 


THE HEIR OF 


With rapid steps he now pursued his course for a 
considerable distance, when he suddenly turned down 
a narrow and badly lighted street, in the middle of 
which he kept, for the condition of the sidewalks was 
such as to render tl^em unsafe even to the noon-day 
pedestrian, until he came to a house, at the windows 
of which were seen those red curtains, which proclaim 
to all that the devil’s auction is held within, and that 
souls are nightly offered there for sale. This he en- 
tered ; although it might be supposed that the mingled 
sounds of lewdness and blasphemy, which met him at 
the threshold, would have been too much for one of 
his extreme moral sensibility to encounter. 


XIL 

WHILE VIRTUE CREEPS VICE GALLOPS. THE MALLI- 
SONS. 

The house which Eoberts had entered, was, from the 
sign above the door, known throughout the region in 
which it was situated by the name of “ The Lion’s 
Den,” or more generally. The Den, a noted rendez- 
vous of rogues and villains, of almost every grade, 
and well understood to be such by the Police of that 
day, who, nevertheless, did not make the slightest at- 
tempt to break it up. This was kept by no less a per- 
sonage than our old acquaintance, Greorge Mallison, 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


139 


who, with, the money for which he had alienated his 
right, whatever that might have been, in poor little 
Jeff, had established himself in business, on a small 
scale, as a vender of distilled destruction, but which 
he had expanded, as his means increased, until he 
stood at the very head of his class — the sordid slayers 
of the bodies and souls of their fellow-men. 

The seventeen years that were past had added 
greatly to the burly form of Greorge, and strengthened 
the bull-dog expression of his surly countenance, 
and the consciousness of power — the power which 
wealth, no matter how acquired, seldom fails to give — 
now rendered him as overbearing to all around him 
as he had formerly been to poor Sophy. His power 
was absolute; his word law to all within the sphere 
of his influence, and he was a bold fellow, indeed, and 
one who recked little of a whole skin, who would dis- 
pute a point with Mallison within the boundaries of 
the Den. He was now seated at a table in one corner 
of the crowded bar-room with a young man, rather 
fashionably dressed, whose very handsome counte- 
nance was sadly disfigured by the air of unscrupulous 
villainy by which it was characterized. He was ap- 
parently not more than one, or two, and twenty, 
although the slightness of his figure, the extreme deli- 
cacy of his features, and the soft brown curls which 
fell from under the cap of fine blue cloth that was set 
jauntily on the side of his head, might have made him 
appear much younger than he really was. This was 
Washington — or as he was familiarly called, Wash 
Mallison — the heir apparent of the Lion’s Den. 


140 


THE HEIR OF 


The original disposition of this young man was cer- 
tainly good, and, with proper care, he would, in all 
probability, have grown up a highly useful member 
of society, for his talents, though not great, were much 
above mediocrity. But it seemed the determination 
of Mallison to root out every virtuous principle which 
nature had planted within him, and to train him up 
to pursue, without hesitation, the path of evil that he 
had marked out for him. Unfortunately, he succeeded 
but too well. From a shy, kind-hearted, honest- 
minded child, he grew up a daring, cruel, dishonest 
youth, and few of a certain class of young men were 
better known throughout the city than Wash Malli- 
son. 

And here I would beg a moment’s pause, to say a 
word on the folly of the times, in giving to our chil- 
dren the names of the great ones of our country. It 
is worse than ludicrous — it is an insult to the memory 
of the illustrious dead — the Washingtons, Adamses, 
Jeffersons, Hamiltons, Jacksons, and all that glorious 
brotherhood of heroes and sages, that have conferred 
such high honor upon the American name in the brief 
period of our national existence — that their names 
should be thrown away upon the miserable creatures 
who crawl through our streets, or the wretches who 
crowd our prisons, just as those of the great men of 
antiquity are given to our dogs. ISTor is it an advan- 
tage to the individuals so named. A fine coat on a 
common beggar strikes us by its incongruity, and 
renders more apparent the raggedness of the rest of 
his attire, and the man who has done nothing to make 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


141 


a name for himself, often becomes ridiculous bj the 
contradiction apparent between his name and his 
deeds ; for, as it was once said by a friend of mine, to 
one of this class, who had the folly to boast of this 
distinction — having nothing else in the world to boast 
of— 

“We often hear men, who have no better claim 
To notice, make boast of a time-honored name ; 

But prate of that honor as much as you please, sir, 

A dog’s but a dog — though his name should be Caesar.” 

But this is a digression. 

Both father and son rose on the appearance of Eob- 
erts, and, without speaking, the trio walked into an- 
other room, where a number of people, some well and 
some ill-dressed, were seated at different tables, en- 
joying themselves over their drink, for before each 
stood a glass or a mug containing his favorite bever- 
age. Various subjects were under discussion at the 
same moment, filling the place with a clamor little 
short of that of Babel. One young fellow, in a short 
drab overcoat and flash waistcoat, over which was 
paraded a quantity of gilt chain, was relating with 
great gusto, and a proper intermixture of slang phrases 
and horrid blasphemies, the particulars of a desperate 
fight in which he had lately been engaged, to a sleek- 
headcd youth in a greasy roundabout, whose weasel 
eyes seemed to glow with pleasure at, the recital. Two 
ragged politicians were loud in argument upon the 
comparative merits of their respective parties, and, to 
take the words of the disputants, both were proven to 
be equally infamous, and unworthy the support of 


142 


THE HEIR OP 


any honest man. A hanger on at one of the theatres, 
where the finest creations ^of human genius were 
nightly burlesqued, for the amusement of a coarse- 
minded audience, was trying to entertain some half a 
dozen listeners, from whom he expected a drink in 
return, by a parody of a song then very much in 
vogue; and near the singer sat four or five half 
drunken controversialists, who were listening, open- 
mouthed, to a carbuncle-nosed Jew pedlar, known 
by the soubriquet of the “ Professor,” who was endeav- 
oring to prove, from the Kevelations of St. John I the 
speedy downfall of the Papal Usurpation. 

Without stopping to speak to any one of the motley 
group that composed the company in “ The Beading 
Room,” as this was called, Mallison, Wash, and Rob- 
erts ascended a flight of stairs at the end of it, which 
led to a covered gallery that, crossing a paved court, 
connected the Den with the private dwelling of Mal- 
lison, which fronted on another street. At the termi- 
nation of this gallery was a door that opened into the 
upper entry of Mallison’s house ; and descending a 
flight of broad and well-carpeted stairs, they passed 
through a wide hall, handsomely furnished and lighted, 
and entered a parlor, which bore more marks of wealth 
than of taste, through which a pleasant light was dif- 
fused by a large solar lamp, that stood on a centre 
table of beautiful black marble in the middle of the 
room. 

As soon as they had entered, Mallison locked the 
door behind them, as he did also the folding-doors 
that opened into the front parlor ; then, drawing chairs 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


143 


to the table, they seated themselves ; when looking 
earnestly in the face of Eoberts, the master of the 
Den uttered the monosyllable, 

“ Well ?” 

“ All right !” was the answer, in a cheerful tone. 
“ The coast is clear. He’s out, and will be till two or 
three, at the earliest. Before that time we can have 
every thing taken care of. Let Lewsen and Sweet 
come up with Wash to the mouth of the alley, but 
no farther; for fear of some blunder. They know 
nothing of the premises, and he does.” 

“That I do,” said the young man, “like a book.” 

“ Well, come up in ’bout an hour. You will find 
the back way open. Here are two keys, that will turn 
in their well-oiled locks with as little difficulty as a 
politician will turn his coat. Mind, this crooked one 
is for the first door. Here is a third for the iron chest. 
I’ve had precious hard work to get at that long enough 
for my purpose. Whenever he was out of the way, 
the old woman was sure to be in it; and ’twas pot till 
five this morning that, finding him in a sound sleep, 
I stole in and took the impression. By the light in 
the hall, you will know if he is still absent.” 

“But if he should return after Wash gets in?” 
asked Mallison. 

“ No fear of that. Brenton will try to make all he 
can out of him to-night, knowing he is not likely to 
have another chance for some time, as he goes with 
his bride to Washington immediately after the cere- 
mony. They have scarce left the theatre yet; and 
after they come out, they must have some supper ; 


144 


THE HEIR OF 


then look in at ’s, and then for ecarte till two or 

three at least. But if he should return, Wash is not 
so large that he could not couceal himself behind the 
iron chest in the closet, which he will hardly enter to- 
night, or in one of the windows of the outer room, 
the curtains of which very conveniently come down 
to the floor. The greatest danger is from the old 
woman. She is forever spooking about, when she 
should be asleep ; and, for that reason, I must not be 
long out, for fear she should call me for some non- 
sense or other, as she often does. She, however, gives 
timely notice of her approach, for the creaking of her 
shoes can be heard from garret to cellar. You can 
easily keep out of her way.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Wash, with an oath, “and out of his’n, 
too ; or, at any rate, I can easily put him out of mine,” 
drawing from a breast pocket, and holding up, with a 
significant gesture, a spring dirk; and as the sharp 
blade gleamed in the light of the lamp, the heavy 
features of the elder Mallison were animated with a 
fiendish joy. 

“ No blood. Wash, no blood!” said Koberts, with a 
shudder, and turning deadly pale. “ The plate and 
jewels are worth some risk, but not worth that.” 

“You’m a precious coward, you am, Joe,” said 
Wash, with a laugh, as he returned the dirk to its* 
place. “ But don’t be afeared. If we can bleed him 
quietly one way, we won’t try t’other.” 

“You understand perfectly what you are to do?” 
asked Roberts of Wash. 

“I rather think I do,” was the answer. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


145 


Then I’ll take myself off,” and he rose to depart. 

“Won’t you try suthirig before you go?” asked 
Mallison. 

“ Ho, thank you ; not to-night. When this is over. 
I’ll drink with you till all is blue ; but for the present 
I must keep a clear head. Grood night.” The door 
was unlocked, and he and Mallison retired, leaving 
Wash behind; who remained for the purpose of mak- 
ing some alterations in his dress, for which he as- 
cended to his own room in the garret, and when he 
returned to the parlor was equipped in a rough pea- 
jacket and tarpaulin hat, instead of the jockey coat 
and handsome cap he had worn. 

At the moment he returned, his mother also entered 
the parlor. Time and circumstances had' wrought 
great changes in Sophy. Her once slight figure had 
become greatly — even unpleasantly — expanded ; her 
delicately-moulded features were now grown common, 
almost vulgar, and her complexion, which had par- 
taken more of the lily than the rose, was greatly 
heightened by the habitual and immoderate use of 
distilled liquors. I have already said that the intel- 
lect of Sophy was weak; and the little mind with 
which she was endowed, had received little or no cul- 
tivation. But the goodness of her heart would have 
made ample amends for the weakness of her head, 
had its warm and generous affections been cherished 
or appreciated. But, unhappily, they were neither. 
She had been undervalued by all with whom she had 
ever been associated, with the single exception of her 
mother-in-law, who certainly both loved and prized 
7 


146 


THE HEIR OF 


her, and continued, until her death, her never-failing 
friend — the only one who dared to stand between her 
and the brutality of her husband. Even the one 
child left to her, and on which she doated, ceased, as 
he grew up, to return the affection she had lavished 
upon him, and now treated her with marked con- 
tempt. He had, with the clear-sightedness of child- 
hood, early discovered the mental inferiority of his 
parent, and, never having been taught to “honor fa- 
ther and mother,” took no pains to conceal the opinion 
he entertained of her. The unkindness of Mrs. 
Ketchum and the treachery of Edward ; the brutality 
of George Mallison and the buffetings of fortune, 
poor Sophy had borne, if not from Christian motives, 
at least, with a patience that would have done honor 
to the Christian name. But the neglect of her son 
struck deep into her heart • and finding no sympathy 
from the world without, and having no resources 
within herself, she sought a temporary relief from the 
depressing sense of her isolated condition, by a re- 
course to unnatural stimulants, until the use of them 
became, as she thought, necessary to her very exist- 
ence ; and in a few years after her husband had es- 
tablished himself at the Den, the once lovely, gentle, 
patient Sophy Mallison sank into that most disgusting 
of human creatures — a Female Drunkard. 

She entered the parlor just as Wash returned to it, 
after having equipped himself for his night’s adven- 
ture. She had been invited to a party at the house 
of a wholesale liquor dealer, of whom her husband 
had long been an excellent customer, and was now, 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


147 


at almost eleven o’clock, prepared to go out. Her 
dress formed a striking contrast to the garb of poverty 
in which we last saw her, and consisted of a costly 
satin, richly embroidered, and trimmed with a demi- 
cape of real Valenciennes ; around her neck she wore 
a valuable Milan chain, that extended almost half way 
down her dress, to which was attached a beautiful 
little watch, that was held in, but not concealed by, a 
pocket at her left side. Three bracelets glittered on 
her left and two on her right arm. Her hands were 
gloved, but over her gloves she wore a number of 
showy and costly rings ; and on her head was a grace- 
ful toque of crimson velvet and silver lace, from under 
which fell a few curls of glossy brown — purchased for 
the occasion. 

“Surely, Wash,” said she, in a querulous tone, 
“you are not going in that trim?” 

“ Who said I was?” he answered carelessly. 

“Well, if you’re not, ’tis time you were getting 
ready. The carriage must certainly be waiting. ’Twas 
ordered lit ten.” 

“ Perhaps it is. You’d better ask. I’m not agoin.” 

“ Hot going? You said at tea you would.” 

“ I’ve changed my mind since. Perhaps I’ll call for 
you, and perhaps I won’t. At any rate, I’m not goin 
for to go with you now; so you’d better trundle off 
by yourself.’’ 

“ There’s mischief afoot, I’ll be bound,” said his 
mother, with considerable asperity. Then added, with 
a sigh, “ 0 for the days of poverty and toil, and even 
of beggary I for then the morsel we got — poor as it 


148 


THE HEIR OP 


was — was sweet, for it was honestly come by. W ash- 
ington, my son, think of the end of the evil doer; and 
try betimes to mend your ways. If you do not, the 
State Prison, or ” 

“0, hush up!” exclaimed the youth, impatiently, 
while a frightful scowl passed over his handsome fea- 
tures. If ever I’m hanged, who may I thank for it? 
Who made me what I am?” 

“Not I, Wash, not I.” 

“Well, if you didn’t do it yourself, you looked on 
while it was done, without trying to prevent it.” 

“ Ah, you little know how much I tried, and what 
I suffered for trying. But ’twas of no use I” 

“ Well, if ’twas no use then, ’tis no use now. So,” 
he added, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “let’s talk 
no more about it. Take a good stiff horn to settle 
your narves, and then go to the party by yourself. 
If I can. I’ll call for you. But if I a’n’t there when 
the carriage comes, don’t wait.” So saying, he left the 
room, and his mother proceeded to follow his directions 
to the very letter. 


XIIL 

WHEN ROBBERY LEADS MURDER FOLLOWS. A PAIN- 
FUL DISCOVERY. 

In passing through the reading room of the Den, 
Wash stopped at a table where two men were engaged 


KETCHUM PUKCHASE. 


149 


at a game of dominoes, and, after saying a word to 
them in a whisper, they rose and followed him. These 
were Lewsen and Sweet. The former, a stout athletic 
fellow, standing six; feet in his stockings, and the lat 
ter almost a dwarf in size, but full-chested and broad- 
shouldered, with long arms and bow legs, and evi- 
dently built more for strength than show. Thorough 
villains, both, as ever escaped the hangman’s noose. 
When they reached the outer room. Wash took them 
up to the bar, and filling for each a good “ stiff horn,” 
they drank it off, and then left the house together. 

Having placed his confederates at the mouth of the 
alley, where they were enjoined to remain until his 
return, W ash entered the garden by the door in the 
wall, and proceeded deliberately, but with a noiseless 
step, to the back door, which he pushed open gently, 
and beheld the lamp still burning in the hall. By 
this he knew Ketchum was still absent. He then 
ascended the stairs, found, without the slightest difii- 
culty, the door he sought, unlocked it, and entered the 
room — taking the precaution to relock it, and remove 
the key, as soon as he had made his entrance good. 
By the light cast from the grate he was directed to the 
closet which contained the treasure. This he opened, 
and, when he found himself fairly within, relocked it 
as he had done the other, and taking from under his 
peajacket a small dark lantern, lighted it, and pro- 
ceeded to business. 

Scarce had he taken a peep into the iron chest when 
he was startled by the opening of a door below. He 
listened, and heard the firm tread of a man in the 


150 


THE HEIR OF 


hall. Footsteps then ascended the stairs, a key turned 
in the lock of the outer door, and some one entered 
the room. Wash extinguished his light, and applying 
his eye to the keyhole, saw that the intruder was no 
other than Ketchum himself, and, as there was no way 
of egress but through that room, he very philosophi- 
cally made up his mind to remain quietly where he 
was. So coiling himself into a corner above the chest, 
he resolved to wait with patience until the coast should 
become clear — either by the withdrawal of Ketchum, 
or of his resigning himself to the power of sleep. 

But he seemed determined to adopt neither of these 
courses. Brenton had met with certain friends who 
were not exactly to the taste of his companion, and 
Ketchum had, in consequence, returned home at the 
unusually early hour "of half past eleven. But to 
sleep before twelve he had not attempted for years, 
and he did not think it worth while to make the trial 
now. So, after taking off boots, coat, and vest, and 
putting himself into gown and slippers, he sat down 
to read. But, though his eyes ran over the pages of 
the half dozen books which he took up one after an- 
other, they conveyed no meaning to his mind, and 
he threw them down at last, with a feeling of weari- 
ness. 

He then arose, and walked two or three times across 
the room, when his eye happening to fall upon his es- 
critoire, he stopped and opened it, and taking thence 
a number of billets, and glancing carelessly over their 
contents, threw them into the grate. At length he 
drew forth a paper, on which appeared some lines 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


151 


written in a large, but unformed hand, with ink 
that was now become of a pale brown, and with a 
shade of melancholy upon his still handsome counte- 
nance, read them aloud. 

“ Poor Sophy !” sighed Ketchum, as he committed 
this memento of an early passion to the flames, “ had 
I always been as honest towards thee as when I wrote 
those verses, thy fate and mine would have worn a 
different complexion from what they do at present ! 
But,” he added, with a wish to remove from himself 
the responsibility of an act which he had not scrupled 
to commit, “ who can control his fate ?” 

Soon after this he retired to bed, and in a little 
while, his deep breathing gave audible assurance to 
Wash in his hiding-place that he slept, and not until 
then did the young ruffian attempt to change the posi- 
tion he had at first taken. 

He now arose ; and, having filled his capacious 
pockets with as much of the valuables as they could 
hold — including, of course, the bridal present — let 
himself quietly out. His step was noiseless as a cat’s, 
and he had nearly reached the door of the outer room, 
without in the least disturbing the sleeper, when his 
foot struck against a boot-jack, that had been left care- 
lessly on the floor. The noise was trifling. But 
trifling as it was, it awoke Ketchum, who, starting up 
in his bed, hastily demanded, 

“ Who’s there ?” ^ 

The room was dark; and Wash knew, by remain- 
ing perfectly still, he would run very little risk of 
detection. But a coal, at that moment falling from 


152 


THE HEIE OF 


the grate, threw a gleam athwart the apartment, and 
revealed the figure of the robber to the startled gaze 
of Ketchum, who immediately sprang from the bed 
and seized him by the collar. The youth tried to 
shake him off. But finding this impossible, for he 
was held in the grasp of a strong man, and knowing 
there was no time to be lost, for their scuffle must 
very soon alarm the house, he drew the dirk from his 
sleeve, and struck Ketchum deep in the left side. 
The wounded man staggered back, and uttered a cry 
of pain ; and this cry was echoed by some one in the 
room adjoining. 

Mrs. Ketchum, with the, sleeplessness of age, 
had arisen from her bed after a cat-nap, as was her. 
wont, and was preparing to take her nightly walk 
through the house, when she was alarmed by the 
noise in her son’s room, which was on the same floor 
with her’s, and after a short interjaculatory scream, 
hurried to his door. She knocked and called ; but 
received no answer, although she distinctly heard the 
trampling of feet within, for the hand of Wash grasped 
so tightly the throat of Ketchum that he was unable' 
to utter a word. 

Hereupon the terror of the old lady became truly 
pitiable ; and she uttered a scream that rang through 
the silent chambers of the house, and brought the 
servants in their night-clothes, almost instantly from 
their beds. But instead of suggesting any means of 
opening the door, they only increased the distress of 
their mistress, by running backwards and forwards, 
and crying at the tops of their voices, “Watch I” 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


153 


“Fire !” “Murder!” until they attracted the attention 
of the few passers-by at that late hour, some of whom 
now beat at the door below, and inquired the cause 
of the tumult. 

By this time, Roberts had been drawn from his 
room, yawning, as if just awakened from a sound 
sleep, and after questioning one and then another as 
to the cause of all this uproar, seemed at last to ob- 
tain an inkling of the truth, and suggested the pro- 
priety of breaking in the door, a suggestion that was 
warmly seconded by some of the strangers who had 
come in from the street. This was done ; and before 
light was admitted, except what came from the night 
lamp of Mrs. Ketchurn, Roberts managed to get near 
enough to Wash to whisper him to endeavor, in the 
confusion, to make his escape. Advice more easy to 
give than to take. 

At the time when the crowd in front of the house 
was densest, a carriage, which had been drawn rapidly 
along, was stopped, and a lady, patting her head out 
of the window, desired to know what was the matter, 

“ Why, ma’am,” answered a young man standing 
near the carriage, “ no one exactly knows ; but it 
seems there’s murder going on inside. We’ll know 
now, I guess,” he added, as the door was opened, and 
the crowd rushed into the hall. 

The lady in the carriage was no other than Sophy, 
now returning from the liquor merchant’s party; and 
her curiosity was strongly excited to know what was 
going on within. But she hesitated about gratifying 
it. Twenty-six years before she had been turned out 


154 


THE HEIK OF 


of that very house ; and the recollection of the oppro- 
brious names that day cast upon her, even at this dis- 
tance of time, filled her breast with the bitterest in- 
dignation. But a stronger feeling than curiosity 
prompted her to leave the carriage and ascend the 
steps. She had gathered enough from those who 
crowded the hall, to know that a robbery had been 
attempted, and a murder probably committed ; and a 
terrible foreboding took possession of her heart. She 
had long suspected — although she knew nothing posi- 
tive on the subject — that her son was often engaged 
in enterprises that would ill bear the light, and for 
one of these, she very much feared, he was preparing 
when he left her in the parlor ; a suspicion that was 
greatly strengthened by recollecting to have caught a 
glimpse of Boberts, as he and her husband were re- 
turning through the hall, with whose character she 
was well acquainted, and whom she knew to be the 
servant of Edward Ketchum. She alighted, and 
made her way up stairs. The room was quite full ; 
but, in the first object she distinctly beheld, her worst 
fears were realized. This was Wash ; who was stand- 
ing between two strong men, by whom he was firmly 
held. 

“What is all this?” she demanded, eagerly ap- 
proaching her son. 

“Can’t you see?” returned he, gloomil3^ 

The question was unnecessary. Poor Sophy had 
seen enough. The whole terrible truth had been re- 
vealed to her by a glance. In a large easy-chair, sup- 
ported by pillows, sat Edward Ketchum — pale as 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


155 


death, and his shirt stiff with blood; — and her son 
was in custody ! She had nothing to learn ; and, 
with a wild scream, exclaiming, “ Wretched boy, you 
have murdered your father!” fell into violent hys- 
terics, from which she did not recover until she was 
placed in the carriage to be conveyed home. 


XIY. 

AN EPISODE. 

I MUST now diverge for a short time, from the di- 
rect path of this narrative, to relate that, while prepa- 
rations were going on for the espousals of Edward 
Ketchum and his fair cousin, another wedding was on 
the tapis. From the time of her settlement in the 
temporary home which she had found in Montreal, 
Mrs. Kollins had kept up a ’ constant, although not 
very frequent intercourse by letters with our young 
friend Alfred, which kept him advised of the health 
and unchanged affection of his Kate, while she was 
duly apprized of the success that had attended his 
agricultural plans, as well as the inquiries which he 
had diligently followed up, concerning the faith that 
she so undoubtingly professed. At length a letter 
reached him — accompanied by a manuscript of sev- 
eral sheets — containing the long-desired permission to 
come and claim the hand which he had sought, not 


156 


THE HEIR OF 


only to possess but to deserve. That be availed him- 
self of this permission, no one, of course, will doubt, 
and while he is on his way to Canada, we will take a 
peep into the packet which contained the story of 
Mrs. Kollins, and ran as follows: 

“ The trials with which it has pleased my heavenly 
Father, for his own wise purposes, to visit me, beset 
my path at a very early age. My parents had made 
what is called a love match, or, in other words, a ro- 
mantic and most imprudent marriage, and thereby 
disobliged their friends, who, in their displeasure, ut- 
terly cast them off, and left them to struggle, as best 
they could, for a bare subsistence, which they ob- 
tained by keeping a plain school in a remote part of 
their native State. In this obscure spot I first saw the 
light, and here, too, my parents died soon after my 
birth, leaving me to the care of a neighboring farmer, 
a person in whom — although their acquaintance was 
of recent date — my father had reposed implicit confi- 
dence. This confidence was not misplaced, and never 
was child treated with greater tenderness by a parent 
than I was treated by the excellent Mr. Garwood. 
But, unhappily, this good man died before 1 had 
passed the tvvelfth year of my age, and the charge 
of me devolved, as a matter of course, upon his 
widow, the only person who at that tiuie seemed to 
regard me with dislike. 

“ After this, my stay with Mrs. Garwood was a time 
of extreme hardship, for though a delicate girl, I was 
obliged not only to perform my part in the domestic 
affairs of the family, but to card, spin, and weave ; 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


157 


milk, cliurn, and make cheese ; weed the garden, the 
flax, and the wheat ; plant, hoe, and husk corn ; pull 
flax, and pick potatoes, and many other things of like 
nature, entirely unsuited to my age and sex. One 
privilege only did I enjoy. This was to cultivate a 
small piece of ground for my own especial use, the 
produce of which brought me in a trifling sum annu- 
ally, that by careful hoarding amounted in time to 
several dollars. 

“ One Sunday in October — ^it was my fifteenth birth 
day — I wandered, as was my custom, whenever I 
could command the time, far into the woods. It was 
truly an autumnal day. The sun shone but now and 
then through the masses of gray clouds that wero 
drifting across the face of heaven, and the wind, that 
sobbed among the mighty branches of the giant trees, 
almost covered me with falling leaves, whose bright 
tints filled the contemplative mind with melancholy 
— for their beauty spake of decay. I had brought 
with me a book, but did not attempt to read. In 
hours of severest trial, my spirits had never seemed 
to flag. Indeed, I had always been regarded as a 
very happy, thoughtless creature, and no one could 
have supposed that my gayety was all assumed, to 
hide the throbbings of an aching heart. But I was 
now alone in the woods, as I had long been alone in 
the world, and thought I might for once give waj- 
to the sadness that was weighing so heavily upon 
me. 

“So I sat me down on the trunk of a fallen tree, 
and leaned my head upon my hands. Tears then 


158 


THE HEIR OF 


began to flow, and they flowed unchecked, as they 
had come unbidden, for they eased my heart of an 
almost insupportable 'burthen. And there I sat, I 
know not how long, but when I arose to return to 
the house, I encountered the gaze of a stranger riv- 
eted upon me. 

“I started; when, seeing my confusion, he said 
mildly, 

“‘Be not alarmed. I do not wish to annoy you. I 
am a stranger, and have no right to your confidence. 
But, seeing you weep, I was constrained to stop, and 
learn, if I might, the cause of your unhappiness.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed, sir,’ I answered, ‘ I hardly know it my- 
self I fear I am very foolish, for I have hardly any 
cause for sorrow.’ 

“ ‘ Then you do very wrong to weep over imaginary 
ills. While blessed with youth, innocence, and paren- 
tal care, no one can, or should be unhappy.’ 

“ ‘ Parental care, sir, I have never known.’ 

“ ‘ Poor child ! Still you have friends ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, the daughters of Mrs. Garwood, whom I 
have lived with from my infancy, have always been 
my friends ; but I am no favorite with their mother.’ 

“ ‘Well, my dear, though you may not possess, you 
can, at least, deserve the favor of Mrs. Garwood. 
But for this, do no4 depend upon your own unaided 
efforts. Ask assistance of God, and He will not with- 
hold it. Kemember my advice, my child, and fare- 
well.’ So saying, he abruptly departed. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


159 


XY. 

THE EPISODE CONTINUED. 

The unkindness of Mrs. Garwood increased with 
years ; and at length became insupportable. I then 
determined, as I had reached the age when, according 
to law, I was become my own mistress, to seek a new 
home ; — a determination that was confirmed by a 
letter which I found among some papers that had be- 
longed to my parents. This was from a sister of my 
poor mother, urging her warmly and affectionately to 
return to her friends. It was dated at New York, and 
signed Susan Bradley. 

“ If willing to receive the mother, she surely would 
not reject the daughter ; and a gleam of joy irradiated 
the gloom which had long hung upon my spirits, 
when I thought of the possibility of meeting face to 
face one upon whose tenderness I felt I had some 
claim. I now nTentioned to Mrs. Garwood tfie reso- 
lution I had formed; and, contrary to my expecta- 
tion, although she certainly looked surprised, she 
expressed no displeasure. Indeed I think she was 
rather glad to get rid of me, although I never could 
conceive why it was that she regarded me with such 
unconcealed dislike. 

“ I packed up my worldly all in a common blue 
and white handkerchief, and, after taking an affec- 


160 


THE HEIR OF 


tionate leave of Becky and Mim_y, who had always 
been to me as sisters, I set out on foot for Troy, a 
distance of several miles. Here I took passage on 
board of a sloop ; and in a few days found myself, 
an utter stranger, in the metropolis of the western 
world. 

“ When about to leave the vessel, the captain asked 
very kindly to what part of the city I was going, to 
which I answered that I really did not know. 

“‘Don’t know?’ said he. ‘ But surely you know 
the street you’re going to ?’ 

“ ‘Indeed, sir, I do not.’ 

“ ‘Well, as ’tis late now, you’d better stay aboard 
to-night. Or, if you don’t like that. I’ll take you to 
my sister-in-law, a very nice woman, who’ll give you 
a bed, and to-morrow you’ll have the hull day to look 
for your aunt.’ 

“ This was real kindness on the part of the worthy 
captain ; and his offer, to take me to his sister-in- 
law’s, was accepted with equal readiness and gra- 
titude. 

“ My reception from this good woman was truly 
cheering, and I felt myself quite at home with her. 
There was something very motherly in her atten- 
tions ; and the order and cleanliness of her small 
apartments, reminded me at once of my late home ; 
for with all her faults, Mrs. Garwood was a notable 
housekeeper; and, notwithstanding the strangeness 
of my situation, I never slept more soundly than that 
first night in New York. 

“ The next morning I rose long before any of the 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


161 


family was stirring, and dressed myself with the iit- 
most care ; then, as soon as I had taken my break- 
fast, set out to seek my aunt. But, although I must 
have called at the . house of every Bradley in the 
city, I could not find her ; I sought and foot-sore and 
heart-sick, I returned at night to the shelter of Mrs. 
Ford’s roof. 

“ ‘Now, don’t be cast down,’ said my kind-hearted 
hostess, when I told her of my ill-success. ‘You’ll 
find your aunt in a day or two, I dare say ; and 
you’re very welcome to stay here till then, or as long 
as you please. If you shouldn’t find her, and are 
anxious to get something to do to take care of your- 
self, -I’ll take you, whenever you’ve a mind, to an In- 
telligence Office, where you can get any kind of place 
you want for a few shillings.’ 

“ I remained several days with Mrs. Ford, every 
one of which, except Sunday, I spent in searching for 
my aunt ; but in vain. I then proposed to Mrs. Ford 
to seek a place at an Intelligence Office, whither she 
very kindly consented to accompany me. 

“We entered the office by a descent of three or 
four steps; and within a little pen, at a desk, stood a 
small, withered, middle-aged man in green spectacles, 
who received us with a smirk, and then called, in an 
authoritative tone, to a young man who had been very 
rudely staring at me, to fall back, and let the ladies 
approach. 

“ ‘Well, ladies,’ he then said, rubbing together his 
shrivelled hands, ‘ what can I do for you this morn- 
ing?’ 


162 


THE HEIR OF 


‘‘ ‘ This young person,’ answered Mrs. Ford, ^ is in 
want of a situation in some plain family.’ 

‘ The young lady can be well recommended, I 
presume,’ he said, as he took the fee, and set my 
name down in his book. ‘ You know, people now-a- 
days are very particular.’ 

“ ‘ She’s a stranger in the city, sir, and has never 
been at service.’ 

“ ‘Pray, miss,’ he demanded of me, ‘ what kind of 
situation would you like.’ 

“ ‘ Any kind,’ I answered with much difhculty, for 
I felt my situation to be an extremely painful one, to 
be obliged, perhaps, 

“ ‘ To beg some fellow worm 
To give me leave to toil,’ 

‘any kind that would not be too much for my 
strength.’ 

“ ‘ Well, then, I think I can just suit you. A lady 
was here, about half an hour ago, who is anxious to 
get a girl from the country. A very respectable 
lady, indeed, and wants one more for a companion 
than any thing else. Here is a ticket. If the place 
shouldn’t suit you, return it to me, and I’ll give you 
another.’ 

“ The house to which I was sent was a very hand- 
some one, but in rather an obscure street, and the 
mistress of it one of the most beautiful women I had 
ever seen. Her husband, she told me, was master of 
a Vessel, and then at sea, and as her family consisted 
only of herself, and, as she kept no other servant — a 


KETCHUM PURCHASE 


168 


black woman coming daily to do the heaviest of her 
work — she would not be able to spare me to go out 
often. But confinement, to one who had scarce an 
acquaintance in the city, was no hardship, and I 
agreed with her at once, and entered on the duties of 
my place that very evening. 

“ I had been nearly a month with Mrs. Yallee, when 
standing at the door one afternoon, during the ab- 
sence of that lady, a gentleman who was passing, 
suddenly stopped, and looking at me — rather rudely, 
I thought — asked if I had ever seen him before. 

“ I looked at him for a moment, and, notwithstand- 
ing the distance of time, recognized in him the stranger 

who had accosted me in the woods at , and told 

him so. 

“‘Then I am not mistaken,’ said he. ‘Why,’ he 
then asked in a sharp tone, ‘did you leave ?’ 

“ ‘ Because, sir,’ I answered, ‘I could no longer stay 
there. Besides the unkindness of Mrs. Glarwood, I 
had to work beyond my strength.’ 

“ ‘ And so you thought to come here and live with- 
out work ?’ 

“ ‘ Indeed, sir,’ I replied, a good deal hurt by his 
manner, ‘ I thought no such thing. I came to seek 
my aunt.’ 

“ ‘ Is the woman of this house your aunt ?’ 

“ ‘ No, sir. I could not find my aunt, and was obliged 
to take a service place.’ 

“ ‘ But do you know whom you are living with ?’ 

“ ‘ 0 yes, sir,’ I answered readily, ‘ her name is Mrs. 
Yallee.’ 


164 


THE HEIR OF 


“‘This Mrs. Yallee, as you call her,’ he said, ‘is 
one of the most infamous women in the city. But 
what is the name of your aunt ? Perhaps I can as- 
sist you in finding her ; — at any rate, here you must 
not stay.’ 

“ ‘ Her name is Bradley — Mrs. Susan Bradley.’ 

“ ‘ And yours?’ he asked eagerly. 

“ ‘ Is Susan Kollins.’ 

“ ‘ The daughter of William Eollins and Harriet 
Ashby ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, sir,’ I answered almost breathless. 

“ ‘ Gracious Heaven !’ he exclaimed, ‘ I thank thee. 
This will be joyful news for your poor aunt.’ 

“ ‘ 0, you know her, then ?’ 

“ ‘ Eight well. But let us leave this wretched place. 
Take what belongs to you, and come with me at 
once.’ 

“ ‘ But Mrs. Yallee ’ 

“ ‘Think not of her. Do as I desire, and delay 
not.’ I did not wait to be urged again. 

“ It was now almost dark, and, afjer walking pretty 
smartly for ten or fifteen minutes, we stopped at a 
neat two-story house, which my conductor entered 
without either knocking or ringing. He then led me 
into a parlor, at a window of which, although there 
was no light in the room, I could see a lady was 
seated, whom, having motioned me to a chair, he ap- 
proached, and began some trifling conversation. At 
length he said : 

“ ‘ You seem low-spirited to-night, aunt. Why are 
you so sad ?’ 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


165 


have been thinking of the dead I’ she an- 
swered. 

“‘But why will you think always oi^ the dead?’ 

“ ‘ Because I have none living to think of, Henry, 
but you.’ 

“ ‘But may not Harriet have left a child?’ 

“ ‘ It is hardly possible. That she had one, I have 
reason to think, from the intimations in poor William’s 
letter previous to^ their leaving Albany. But if they 
are dead— of which there can be little doubt — it must 
have died too, for all my inquiries respecting it and 
them have brought me nothing but disappointment.’ 

“ ‘ What would you say, if I should produce that 
child?’ 

“ ‘ Do not jest with me, Henry,’ she said in a tone 
of melancholy that brought tears to my eyes. ‘ I feel 
just now that I could not well bear it.’ 

“ ‘ Pardon me, dear aunt,’ he said tenderly, ‘ I did 
not mean to give you pain.’ Lights were just then 
brought in, and, taking me by the hand, and leading 
me up to her, he.asked, 

“ ‘Does this face remind you of any you have ever 
seen ?’ 

“ The old lady pushed back my bonnet, and after 
looking earnestly at me for some minutes through her 
spectacles, answered in a voice tremulous with emo- 
tion, ‘ It is the face of my sister !’ and, throwing her 
arms around me, and laying her head on my neck, 
wept long and silently. 


166 


THE HEIR OF 


XYL 

THE EPISODE CONTINUED. 

“My aunt was now quite old — having seen no 
fewer, probably, than three score years and ten. She 
had been many years the senior of my mother, whom, 
on the death of their parents, she had taken into her 
family, and brought up more as a daughter than a 
sister. The husband . of my aunt was the uncle of 
Henry Morville ; and as Henry and my mother were 
nearly of an age, it had been confidently hoped by 
their elders that an attachment might spring up be- 
tween them, that would make their temporary resi- 
dence under the same roof a permanent one. This 
hope, had its fulfilment depended upon Morville, 
would have met with a speedy realization, for his 
love for my mother was of quick and vigorous 
growth. But his affection was not returned. One 
whom he had introduced to the acquaintance of his 
future wife — one young, inexperienced, and of ardent 
temperament — had taken advantage of the easy con- 
fidence of his friend, clandestinely wooed, and, I need 
hardly add, won for himself the heart of the beauti- 
ful but giddy Harriet Ashby. 

“ The treachery of him in whom he had trusted 
stung poor Morville to the quick. But he uttered not 
one word of reproach. Hot so was it, however, with 
my aunt. She felt she had a right to be indignant, 


KETCHITM PURCHASE. 


107 


and did not restrain the expression of her just anger. 
Bitter words were uttered bj both parties ; and a se- 
rious rupture followed, which, unfortunately, was 
never truly healed, although a few letters passed be- 
tween my aunt and my parents just before my birth, 
in which the former urged her sister and her husband 
to come to her — but, as we have seen, in vain. 

“ After the death of her husband, who was a mer- 
chant of some standing, my aunt had given up his 
business entirely to Morville, whose name was also 
placed in the Directory as master of her house, which' 
was the reason I failed in my search for her upon first 
coming to the city. Morville never married. But 
disappointment had not made him a misanthrope, 
and, although there was a hrusquerie in his manner 
that was not at all times pleasing, the goodness of his 
heart was manifested in every action of his life ; and 
wherever the name of Morville was uttered, a bless- 
ing accompanied it. 

“ Some years before this my aunt had taken a poor 
girl to assist in the light work of the family, but whom 
she subsequently adopted and educated as a daughter. 
Emmeline was very beautiful certainly, but very vain, 
and of a most ungovernable temper ; with art enough, 
however, to conceal these defects of character, and 
with accomplishments that could not fail to command 
the admiration of all who knew her. We were natu- 
rally thrown very much together, and I was disposed 
to love her with all my heart. But, although she 
generally appeared kind to me — sometimes even too 
kind, — and ready to excuse my many defects, by at- 


168 


THE HEIE OF 


tribuling all to the neglect from which I had suffered 
in early life, I never could bring myself to feel to- 
wards her as I wished. There was a want of sin- 
cerity in her manner that made me rather Tear than 
love her from the first, and her treatment of me, in 
private, was marked with so much contempt as to 
keep me in a state of almost constant irritation, that 
severely tried a temper never, I fear, very good. 

My aunt had not seen much company for years ; 
but, for the, sake of her daughters, as she called Em- 
meline and me, now threw open her house to visitors 
of both sexes, and finally gave a party that surpassed 
any thing of the kind of which I had ever dreamed. 
The next morning Emmeline entered my room with 
a gay air ;• and addressing me in a voice that she in- 
tended to be very pleasant, but which had to me an 
extremelj^ hollow sound, asked, 

“ ‘ Well, whom did you dream of after you went to 
bed ? I think I can guess. Gome, now, be honest. 
Was it not Brenton?’ 

“ ‘ Brenton ?’ I repeated, looking as unconscious as 
possible. ‘ Who is Brenton ?’ 

“ ‘ 0 now, don’t try to play innocence. That blush, 
my prett}^ rustic, would betray, to dimmer eyes than 
mine, that you know who he is.’ 

“ ‘ 0 yes, I think I do know whom you mean.’ 

“‘Nonsense, child, you know very well. No one 
who has seen him once can easily forget him. Com- 
pared to the puny tribe of dandies who surrounded 
us, he was 

“ lu shape and gesture proudly eminent 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


169 


and I every moment expected to hear you cry out 
with Miranda, 

“ I might call him 
A thing divine, for nothing natural 
I ever saw so noble 

for, really, my dear, I never saw admiration so power- 
fully expressed. But he gave as good as you sent. 
His, however, was not confined to looks. I caught — 
without meaning to listen, I assure you — some of the 
pretty things he uttered ; and of a verity they were 
very pretty.’ 

“Emmeline was right. Brenton had certainly dis- 
tinguished me by his attentions ; and the words he 
contrived to say to me, sotto voce^ conveyed more 
pleasure to my heart than it had ever known before ; 
a pleasure, I fear, that must have been easily read in 
my countenance, for it had been seen by Emmeline, 
and could hardly have escaped the keen eye of him 
who had excited it. It had been, as I soon learned, 
noticed also by another. This was Morville. The 
wretchedness depicted in his face, when we met at 
breakfast, made me apprehensive for his health. It 
was the mind, however, not the body, that was af- 
fected. The love he had once felt for the mother he 
had been disposed to transfer to the daughter, a 
disposition that had been encouraged, not to say 
prompted, by my aunt; and the gratification I had 
evidently derived from the attentions of Brenton had 
given him much pain, and this pain was now plainly 
marked in his ingenuous countenance. 

“From this time the visits of Brenton were fre- 
8 


170 


THE HEIR OF 


quent; and the pleasure I had first felt from his at- 
tentions increased, as those attentions assumed a deeper 
significance ; and the sadness of Morville deepened 
in like proportion. All this evidently annoyed my 
aunt. But, with a heart full to repletion with grati- 
fied vanity, and a brain giddy with anticipations of 
coming bliss, I paid little heed to the evidences of 
the pain I was inflicting, and continued in the path I 
had chosen with unfaltering steps. 


XVII. 

THE EPISODE CONCLUDED. 

“Late one night, while sitting in my own little 
room, at a window which I had opened for the ad- 
mission of the gentle breeze, and gazing abstractedly 
at the bright full moon, sailing majestically through 
the deep blue of the upper ocean, I was startled by a 
strain of music from a guitar, that arose from the street 
below, accompanied by a voice which gave utterance 
to words imbued with the very spirit of passion. The 
voice was Brenton’s ; and the words of the song filled 
my heart with a gush of joy. But wishing not to ap- 
pear to listen, I put forth my hand to close the case- 
ment, and in doing so, dropped from my fingers a 
knot of ribbon I had that evening worn in his pres- 
ence in my hair ; and looking after it by a sudden 


KETOHUM PURCHASE. 


171 


impulse, saw Brenton stoop and pick’ it up, press it 
passionately to his lips, and place it in his bosom. 

“ The next morning my aunt sent for me to her 
room. In a grave, earnest, yet affectionate manner, 
she began to speak to me of the attentions of Brenton, 
which, she said, were unpleasing to her for two rea- 
sons ; — her wish to see me the wife of the truly excel- 
lent Henry Morville ; — and the well-known character 
of Brenton — a spendthrift, a gambler, a sensualist — • 
who, with his high notions of family, would never 
have stooped to become the suitor for the hand of her 
niece, did he not expect, with that hand, to receive the 
bulk of a fortune, which it had taken her husband 
long years of patient industry to amass ; — an expecta- 
tion that should never be realized. And concluded, 
by desiring me to give him his dismissal at once, or 
permit her to do so for me. 

“ I would consent to do neither. I assured her 
that, although I had every respect for the character of 
Morville, I never could feel for him the affection of a 
wife ; and that, with all his faults, the charge of inter- 
estedness could not lie against Brenton, who well 
knew my poverty, and the little right I had to expect 
anything like a fortune. But, as he had not yet 
offered himself, I did not see how I could in delicacy 
dismiss him; nor, if he should offer, was I sure, ac- 
cording to my feelings at that moment, that I could 
reject him. Here the conference closed ; with a res- 
olution on my part to become the wife of the man of 
my choice, should he afford me an opportunity, and 
with a determination on the part of my aunt, which, 


172 


THE HEIR OF 


under an exterior harshness, covered a great deal of 
genuine kindness. 

“ Brenton came in the evening, and I went out with 
him for a walk on the Battery. How it happened I 
know not, but he seemed to know all about my aunt’s 
opposition to him ; offered himself to me with the 
most generous disregard of consequences ; and urged 
me to escape from the tyranny of my situation, as he 
called it, by immediately becoming his wife ; and I, 
forgetful alike of duty and delicacy, consented. We 
were married ; and after this imprudent step, which I 
then called a proof of disinterested aJffection, I accom- 
panied my husband to the house of his mother, and, 
for a few brief months, fancied myself the happiest 
creature in the world. 

“ In a little while, however, ‘a cloud no bigger than 
a man’s hand’ might, by an observant eye, have been 
seen to rise above the horizon, which but too soon, 
alas! spread over the whole heaven of my existence. 
Brenton, who had at first been all devotion, now be- 
gan to treat me with occasional coldness, and finally 
with marked neglect. He was greatly embarrassed, 
as he told me, in his affairs, and recommended to me 
the policy of being reconciled to my aunt, with the 
hope of obtaining pecuniary aid ; and as my own feel- 
ings dictated the same course — though not for the 
same ends — a reconciliation was very soon effected. 
But the result was not what he had anticipated; for 
very soon after this event, my aunt gave me to under- 
stand that she had settled upon me a certain annuity — 
far more than I had ever expected — but to cut off all 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


173 


hopes of further assistance, had already made her 
will, in which, with the exception of a respectable 
provision for Emmeline, and certain sums left for char- 
itable purposes, Morville was named heir to all which 
she had a right to dispose of. 

“ The mask was now off. The man upon whose 
truth I had rested all my hopes of happiness, had the 
cruelty to taunt me with my folly in marrying for 
love, and curse his own rashness in throwing himself 
away upon a portionless idiot. The blow was as ter- 
rible as unexpected ; and I sank under it. This was 
soon followed by his total desertion of her who had 

Loved not wisely, but too well,’ 

for the endearments of one who, under the guise of 
friendship, had stolen into my confidence to sting me 
with her falsehood — the unprincipled Emmeline — and 
this desertion was in a short time legalized by an 
abominable law of the land, which makes the holy 
marriage vow even less binding than a civil contract. 
But, though abandoned — divorced — and left alone to 
struggle with misfortune, there was still one drop of 
comfort remaining in my cup of bitterness, — the title 
of Wife, of which I had been most unjustly deprived, 
was never bestowed upon my rival, — who in turn 
was deserted, and left to die an outcast from society. 
Poor, misguided Emmeline, although I could not but 
admit that her punishment was just, even then I did 
not rejoice over her misfortune, and most sincerely 
have I learned to pity her since. 

“With broken health, and a bruised spirit, I now 


174 


THE HEIR OF 


yielded to tlie solicitations of my aunt, and returned 
to the home I had so foolishly, not to say wickedly, 
abandoned, taking with me the babe whose innocent 
brow had never been blessed with a father’s kiss, and 
the faithful Judy Riley, who had clung to my fortunes 
with a fidelity that no money could have purchased, 
and no trials could have shaken. But the house was 
not what it had been. I missed the gayety of Emme- 
line, and the kindness of Morville, who had left some 
months before for Europe ; and age, with its attend- 
ant infirmities, began to have effect upon the kind 
temper and equable spirits of my aunt. In a few 
months this excellent relation died, and her death was 
soon followed by that of my little darling. This lat- 
ter event did not grieve me as much as one would 
naturally suppose. I had learned that efforts were to 
be made by the Brenton family to take her from me, 
and I felt it would be easier to resign my child to the 
cold embrace of death, than to the hands of her un- 
natural father. 

“ Hitherto I had had something to live for. Hope, 
like a gentle star, had never ceased to twinkle through 
the deep gloom that surrounded me. But now that 
light was extinguished, and a darkness that might be 
felt, rested alike upon the present and the future, and 
most truly might I say in my desolation, that for me 

‘Joy has no balm, and affliction no sting.’ 

Yet even then, although I had forgotten my God, he 
did not forget me, but commissioned an angel, in the 
form of a little child, to seek me out, and, by re- 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


175 


kindling within my bosom the dormant spark of affec- 
tion for my kind, awoke me to a new, a pleasurable, 
feeling of existence. This Child- Angel was Kitty 
Barry. 

[Here follows an account of her meeting with this 
child, which I need not describe.] 

“ To her dying grandmother, I had promised that 
Kate should be brought up in the faith of her family; 
and, although I had always looked upon that faith as 
heathenism in a modified form, I religiously deter- 
mined to fulfil my promise, fior this purpose I en- 
deavored to secure for her the advantages of a Catholic 
school, and send her regularly to church with Judy 
Riley. But home teachings — the teachings that give 
the bias to the mind of childhood, and extend their 
influence to the remotest period of existence — were 
entirely neglected. How indeed could I attempt to 
instruct, who was profoundly ignorant of even the ru- 
diments of Christian knowledge? I had been taught, 
it is true, in a school in which the Bible was used as 
a class book, and had attended meetings in which many 
‘gifted preachers’ held forth upon the great truths of 
the Gospel — often sadly obscured by the contradictory 
expositions of different speakers — and in consequence 
called myself a Christian. Not a professor, however; 
for the particular form of Christianity I was to adopt 
I had not yet decided upon. But I was nevertheless 
a Christian. Like too many, I fear, in this age of 
boasted intelligence, I was a Christian without attach- 
ing any definite idea to the name, or without allowing 
it to have any influence upon my faith or practice. 


176 


THE HETK OF 


“ As soon as she had learned to read, a certain por- 
tion of the Catechism was daily given to Kate to com- 
mit to memory, and she would often come to recite 
her lesson to me before school hours. I could not 
well refuse compliance with this request of the child, 
yet, if the truth must be spoken, would much rather 
have been excused. But this act, simple as it may 
seem, was the means made use of by the Almighty to 
bring me to a knowledge of Himself. The lessons 
intended for simple childhood, had, through God’s 
grace, the effect of scattering the mists of prejudice 
and error which had clouded the mind of the woman, 
and of softening into flesh the heart of stone. Was I 
not right, when I said that it was to this dear child I 
was indebted for my first knowledge of religion ? 

“ About this time Morville returned from abroad, 
for the purpose of* making a final settlement of his 
affairs, previous to dedicating his life and talents to 
the service of his Maker. Our meeting, although it 
could not fail to awaken many recollections of a pain- 
ful nature, was a source of much real happiness to 
both. The love he had once felt for me, time and cir- 
cumstances. had changed into a friendship that was 
rendered permanent by the bond of Christian unity ; 
and the respect I had always entertained for his char- 
acter, but which fear of encouraging a passion I was 
unable to return had made me unwilling to manifest, 
I could now without impropriety declare. We were 
now professors of the same faith ; — worshippers at the 
same altar ; — members of the same mystical body ; — 
how could we be anything but friends ? Friends we 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


177 


were, and friends we are, even though seas divide us, 
for often, from the field of his missionary labors in the 
far, far East, do I receive messages of kind remem- 
brance from my friend and brother. Kor has his 
friendship been always confined to words. Before he 
left this country for the last time, and altogether with- 
out my knowledge, he made over to me and the child 
of my adoption, a- large portion of the wealth he had 
inherited from his uncle. 

“ The wish to bring Kate up as plainly as possible, 
and prevent her becoming the prey of some unprin- 
cipled fortune-hunter, induced me early to leave the 
city, and take up my abode in so obscure a place as 
Iphigenia ; and the latter wish influenced me in the 
encouragement I gave to your early affection for my 
child ; for I believed she could be happier as the wife 
of an honest farmer than of a heartless man of fashion, 
who, for the sake of her fortune — which, I may now 
tell you, is very handsome — might pretend to forget 
her plebeian origin. My reason for leaving so sud- 
denly our comfortable little home, was the mistake 
which Brenton had fallen into, in believing Kate to 
be the child I had lost, and his threat to call in the 
assistance of the law to take her from me. This, of 
course, he could not do, but he had it in his power to 
annoy me greatly, by the publicity that would thence 
be given to the past, and for his sake, even more than 
my own, I wished all recollections of our unhappy 
story to be forgotten.” 


8 ^ 


178 


THE HEIR OF 


Here ended the narrative of Mrs. Eollins ; in which, 
although all the facts in her. eventful story were faith- 
fully recorded, she failed to do herself j ustice ; for the 
charities of Mrs. Rollins, long before she became a 
Christian, were felt in places where she was never 
seen ; and it is hardly too much to believe, that, as in 
the case of Cornelius the Centurion, her alms had 
“ ascended for a memorial in the sight of God,” or that 
the growth of grace must have been proportionally 
rapid, in a heart so well prepared for its reception by 
the exercise of good works. 


XVIII. 

THE REALIZATION OF OUR WISHES DOES NOT AL- 
WAYS BRING HAPPINESS. ALFRED FINDS HIS 
PARENTS. 

Having received the nuptial benediction from one 
who sustained with much dignity the exalted charac- 
ter of a bishop in the Church of God, a divinely ap- 
pointed pastor over a portion of the flock of Christ, 
Alfred and his bride, with Mrs. Rollins and her faith- 
ful J udy, set out on an excursion to New York, where 
they arrived the evening of that eventful night in 
which the attempt was made by Wash, first upon the 
property, and then upon the life of Edward Ketchum. 
The papers of the next morning were, as a matter of 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


179 


course, filled with exaggerated and in many cases 
contradictory accounts of the transaction ; and boys 
might have been seen flying in all directions, and cry- 
ing out, at the top of their poor cracked voices, 

“ Here’s the extry Jackall ! Got a full account of 
the horrible robbery and murder 1 Here they are.” 

The words “ robbery and murder” drew the at- 
tention of_A.lfred to a ragged little disseminator of 
knowledge, who was at that moment passing under 
the window at which he was standing, and he became 
the purchaser, for three cents, of an “ Extry” which 
contained the following : 

“bold attempt at robbery and murder. 

V 

“ The citizens, in the neighborhood of Place, 

were aroused from their comfortable beds this morn- 
ing, between the hours of one and two, by the appal- 
ling cry of “ Murder!” which was soon ascertained to 
proceed from the noble mansion of Mrs. Ketchum, a 
lady well known to, an.d respected by the whole com- 
munity for her piety and benevolence. A number of 
persons soon collected about the house, which, upon 
being admitted, they discovered had been burglari- 
ously entered, in the early part of the night, by the 
notorious Wash Mallison, who has long been known 
to our Police as one intimately connected with some 
of the most daring villains that have infested our 
city for years. His object was, evidently, to rob the 
house, and then, most probably, set fire to it, that all 
trace of his crime might be obliterated. But, provi- 


180 


THE HEIR OF 


dentiallj, the son of Mrs. Ketchnrn, a most exemplary 
young man, who slept in an adjoining room, was 
roused from sleep by a watchman striking his rounds, 
and caught the robber just as he was making off with 
his booty. He immediately grappled with, and would 
have succeeded in securing him, after two pistols had 
been discharged at him, but for a severe wound he 
received in the left breast, near the region of the 
heart, from a difk, or some sharp instrument, with 
which the villain was armed. The young ruffian is 
now in the Tombs, and we are sorry to add that the 
case of Mr. Ketchum is considered critical in the high- 
est degree. Most sincerely do we hope, that this out- 
rage upon the peace of the community and the well- 
being of society, may meet with the punishment it has 
so daringly provoked. Some idle gossip is afloat this 
morning, that has taken its rise from the remark of a 
poor crazy creature, who forced her way up to the 
room where the wounded man lay. But, we assure 
our readers, it has not 'the shadow of a foundation to 
rest upon. The high moral character which Mr. 
Ketchum has always sustained, is the strongest con- 
tradiction such a story could receive ; and, besides, we 
happen to know, that this very day he was to lead to 
the hymeneal altar one of the most beautiful, accom- 
plished, and pure-minded of our city belles.” Thus 
said, and thus reasoned the “ Extry,” and, with such 
a vehicle, we do not wonder at the rapid diffusion of 
correct information. 

Alfred was greatly moved by what he had read. 
The recollections of his childhood were all connected 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


181 


with Ketcliura, at whose hands he had received re- 
peated acts of kindness ; and he felt peculiarly attached 
to him, believing him to have been the friend of his 
parents. He explained to the ladies his reason for 
leaving them, and then sought the house of Mrs. 
Ketchum, to ascertain how far the report in the paper 
was to be relied on. As he ascended the steps, the 
door opened, and Brenton came out. 

“ Ah, Spencer,” said he, with a familiar nod, “ glad 
to see you. Bad business, this of Ketchum’s.” 

“ It is, indeed I” said Alfred ; then asked with much 
earnestness, “ Is there any hope of recovery ?” 

“Can’t say. Very little, however, I’m afraid. By 
the by,^ Spencer, your coming is very opportune. 
Ketchum has commissioned me to make certain in- 
quiries, in the answers to which you are not a little 
interested. If you have half an hour to spare, and 
will throw it away upon me, we will proceed at once 
upon our errand.” 

Alfred readily agreed to accompany him, not a lit- 
tle wondering at the hint which had been dropped, 
but asked no questions ; and they walked down 
Broadway together, Brenton talking all the time 
upon the affairs of the past night, and the common 
news of the day, with as much indifference as if the 
friend he had left was in the enjoyment of perfect 
health and happiness. 

The business in which Ketchum had engaged his 
friend was with Mallison. With very little difficulty 
Brenton and Alfred found the way to a place so well 
known as the Lion’s Den, and were thence directed to 


182 


THE HEIR OF 


the private dwelling of the worthy proprietor, which, 
as I have already stated, fronted on another street, 
and from its appearance would have made a suitable 
residence for a gentleman of easy circumstances. The 
bell was answered by a slip-shod, unwashed, unkempt 
servant girl, who, in answer to the inquiry for Mr. 
Mallison, said she would go and see if he was up yet, 
and, in the mean while, desired the gentlemen to walk 
in. They did so ; and, showing them into a hand- 
some parlor, she left them. 

Brenton picked up a paper, and seemed bent upon 
making himself master of its contents, while Alfred, 
for want of other occupation, approached the window 
and gazed into the street. In a few minutes his atten- 
tion was called to something that was going on, not 
without, but within the house ; for immediately over- 
head he heard the steps of some one walking hur- 
riedly to and fro, with sounds of passionate weeping, 
mingled with low, but earnest expostulations. At 
length he distinctly heard these words, uttered by a 
shrill female voice : ^ 

“Wretch! trafficker in 'human flesh, this is your 
work 1 The price of one child gave you the cursed 
means of bringing up the other for the gallows I 
Give us back our honest beggary ; — give me back my 
children 1 Give me them ; — or take the life that you 
have rendered wretched forever!” 

“ I’ll do that thing, and quick too, you infernal 
jade, if you don’t shut up at once,” was answered in 
the gruff tones of a man’s voice. “If I hear any 
more of your jaw, I’ll throttle you where you stand!” 


KETCHUM PUKCHASE. 


183 


Here the sounds ceased, interrupted, no doubt, by 
the girl who had gone to c*all Mallison, for she re- 
turned immediately after, and said he would be down 
in a minute. And in a very few minutes at the most, 
in morning-gown and slippers, and with the air of a 
nabob, the master of the house made his appearance. 

“Mr. Mallison,” said Brenton, after slightly return- 
ing the salutation of the other, and without any loss 
of time, “ I have called upon you on a small matter 
of business this morning. But first let me ask, have 
you any recollection of me ?” 

“ No, sir, not the slightest.” 

“ But you remember a Mr. Jones, with whom you 
had certain dealings, about seventeen years ago ?” 

“ Yery well.” 

“ I am he. Now, Mr. Mallison, I wish to ask you 
one question. Was the boy you then gave up to me, 
for the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, the 
supposititious child of Edward Ketchum, or your own 
son ?” . ^ 

“What if I don’t choose t(:) answer?” 

“You will hardly think it worth while to refuse, 
when you recollect that the secret, if there be one, is 
not alone in your keeping ; or, if it were, that means 
may be devised to draw it from you, whether you 
will or not. But it will save trouble, both to you and 
me, to give me the answer at once. By withholding 
it, you can do no good to any one.” 

“Well,” answered Mallison, coolly, “though I 
don’t care a second-hand chaw tobacker for your 
threats, as I’ve had my satisfaction out of the feller, 


184 


THE HEIR OF 


I’ll tell you the truth. The boy I gave to you was my 
own, for I thought as how that Ketchum could do 
better by him than I could, besides I was in hopes I 
could some time make Wash pay him up for his ras- 
cality towards his mother. He has done so, and the 
real son of Edward Ketchum is now in the Tombs, 
for trying to murder his father.” 

Alfred had listened to this brief colloquy with deep 
and painful interest. A terrible suspicion had flashed 
across his mind, the moment that mention was made 
of the boy, and he trembled with anxiety to have it 
dissipated or confirmed. With a face livid from sup- 
pressed emotion, he now turned to Brenton, and, in a 
husky, and almost inaudible voice, asked, 

“ Who — who is that boy ?” 

“You are he,” was the answer. 

“ Great Heaven !” he exclaimed, and reaching for- 
ward to catch at a chair for support, missed it, and, 
reeling like a drunken man, fell heavily on the floor. 

When restored to consciousness, he was lying on a 
sofa, and a lady kneeling by his side, was bathing his 
temples with bay- water, who, when she saw him open 
his eyes, said between a laugh and a cry, 

“ He will live 1 he will live ! I am not altogether 
desolate.” 

“Don’t be a fool,” growled Mallison, who was 
standing on the rug, with his back to the fire, without 
seeming at all interested in what was going on. 
“There’s no fear of him.” 

The young man raised himself slowly fronf%is in- 
cumbent position ; and sat for a few minutes, as if en- 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


185 


deavoring to recollect something that had for the mo- 
ment escaped him. He looked around for Brenton ; 
but that gentleman had left the house, as soon as his 
purpose was accomplished, without giving the slight- 
est heed to the eondition of his companion ; and he 
now found himself alone with those he believed to be 
his parents. How often had he wished, in his iso- 
lated state, to meet with one upon whose affection he 
might feel he had a natural claim ; and yet, although 
in the actual presence of those who were the nearest 
to him on earth — the father and mother whom he had 
so often, in the silent watches of the night, tried to 
picture to himself, and as often taxed his memory in 
vain to bring before his mental vision one dear fa- 
miliar feature — the realization of his wishes brought 
nothing like pleasure to his heart. Hope was lost in 
certainty ; but his long yearning was not satisfied. 

“Jefferson, my son,” said poor Sophy, “have you 
forgotten me entirely ? Do you not know your 
mother?” 

“Jefferson!” said he, without replying to her ques- 
tion. “Jefferson! I know I was not always Alfred; 
but Jefferson does not sound like the name I used to 
answer to.” 

“Jeff,” — ^began Mallison ; but he was interrupted 
by the young man starting from his seat, and exclaim- 
ing in a very excited manner^ 

“That is it! that is it! Jeff was the name. All 
is now confirmed !” and he covered his face with his 
hands, as if to shut out some object too horrible to be 
looked upon. 


186 


THE HEIR OF 


In a little while he became more calm; and then, 
having first related, as briefly as possible, the few 
events of his life, entered into conversation with his 
parents, in which the characters of both were laid 
bare before him, and he shuddered to contemplate 
the moral degradation into which they were fallen. 
But this was no time for idle lamentation. The evil 
that was done could not be remedied. He must now 
be up and doing, and endeavor to avert the conse- 
quences which must naturally follow crime ; for he 
trembled to think of what his gentle Kate would 
suffer, should the disgrace of a felon’s death to his 
brother — justly merited as it was by that brother’s 
deeds — fall upon her husband ; and the thought of 
Kate now urged him to a speedy departure, that he 
might be the first to acquaint her with the painful 
tidings. 

Poor Alfred ! — I cannot call him Jeff ; — nor should 
I. Alfred was the name he received in baptism; and 
by the name of Alfred he became the husband of 
Catherine; that name has since been confirmed to 
him by the law of the land, and it is the name by which 
he is to be known in all days to come. Poor Alfred ! 
he had taken upon himself an irksome task. But Kate 
was a genuine wife ; and heavy,' indeed, would have 
been the burthen that she would fail to lighten. It is 
true, her cheek paled and her lip quivered, when the 
astounding truth was made known to her ; but, though 
she did not affect to treat it lightly, she spoke of it as 
an evil that must be borne with humble submission 
to the will of heaven, whose chastisements — whether 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


187 


they come in the form of poverty, or the death of 
those we love — or, what is worse than all these, dis- 
grace — are always sent in kindness — to wean our 
hearts from the things of this world, and raise our 
desires to the things of God. 


XIX. 

TEMPORARY EVIL IS OFTEN PRODUCTIVE OF EV- 
ERLASTING GOOD. THE DEATH OF EDWARD 
KETCHUM. 

Before the preceding revelation had been made to 
Kate, Ketchum was put in possession of all the facts 
which had been gathered by Brenton in his visit to 
Mallison. The effect of this knowledge was in the 
highest degree alarming; — accelerating,^ by the agita- 
tion consequent thereon, his approaching dissolution. 
Of this he seemed fully aware ; and, immediately upon 
the departure of Brenton, asked to see his lawyer ; to 
whom he gave the necessary directions concerning his 
will ; and then most earnestly begged that he would 
use every means in his power to save the life of the 
young man, who had become the instrument, in the 
hands of a mysterious Providence, of cutting short his 
existence. To this the man of business answered as 
men of business are wont to do, that he would do his 


188 


THE HEIR OF 


best, without the least intention, however, of doing 
anything in the matter ; and took his leave. 

Mrs. Ketchum, who had been for some time impor- 
tunate to see her son, was now admitted. She had 
been what is called, a very tender mother. That is, 
she had humored him in all his caprices, and been 
most lenient to all his faults. But to the true tender- 
ness of a parent — that tenderness which has regard 
only to the welfare of its object — she could lay no 
claim. All her indulgence arose less from affection 
for her son, than from love of her own ease ; and she, 
who would fain have managed the affairs of all her 
acquaintances, so long as that management gave her 
importance in the eyes of the world, could not stoop 
to the drudgery of controlling the child whose guar- 
dianship had been committed by Heaven to her care. 
Edward Ketchum grew up to man’s estate without 
having known the benefit of salutary restraint. And 
this she and her coterie called love. 

But, notwithstanding her want of genuine feeling, 
Mrs. Ketchum could not behold the altered appear- 
ance of her son without being affected; and, for a few 
minutes, tears — real tears — coursed one another down 
her withered cheeks. But habit soon regained the 
ascendancy it had long held over nature ; and, in the 
peculiar cant of her class, she began an harangue on 
the subject of religion, when she was interrupted by 
Edward, who exclaimed, with much impatience, 

“ Let us have no preaching, mother, if you please. 
I am not in a condition to listen to a repetition of bar- 
ren words. Had the religion of which I have heard 


KETOSUM PURCHASE. 


189 


SO mncli — but seen so little — possessed any of tbe 
power which you ascribe to it, T would not now be 
lying on my death-bed.” 

“ What, my son, what can you mean ?” 

“ That, if the charity which religion inculcates, as 
you say, had been extended to poor Sophy Ingraham, 
I would not have received my death from the hand 
of her son.” 

“Was that young ruffian, then, really the son of 
that most wretched girl ?” 

“ Keally her son. Madam — and your grafidsoUj^' was 
the bitter reply. 

Mrs. Ketchum was silent. For the first time, her 
neglect of, and harshness toward, the orphan daughter 
of her husband’s cousin, appeared to give her con- 
science a momentary twinge. But the miserable plea 
of expediency soon came to her relief, and she said, 

“Edward, you are ungenerous, not to say unjust. 
In my efforts to prevent you throwing yourself away 
upon one in no respect worthy of you, I could have 
had no object in view but the maintenance of the re- 
spectability of your family; and I am grateful to 
heaven, as you ought to be, that, through my humble 
instrumentality, the one great end has been accom- 
plished.” 

“Yes,” added her son, “at the expense of happi- 
ness, of honor, and of life. But, mother,” he contin- 
ued, “ we will talk of this no more. The evil cannot 
now be remedied.” 

“ W e should call nothing evil that comes from the 
nand of heaven,” 


190 


THE HEIR OF 


“ Surely that is evil which is brought upon us by 
:)ur own fully, passion or pride ? Had this poor girl 
met with that treatment at our hands which her help- ’ 
lessness, simplicity and near relationship entitled her 
to, she would have been wife good enough for any 
man, and my conscience been charged with many 
crimes less than it is now burdened with. But let us 
waive the subject. By my death, as you are aware, 
the property inherited from my grandfather must pass 
into the hands of strangers. But as this house and 
lot were purchased since his death, they cannot be af- 
fected by his will, and you will find, when all is over, 
that your comfort has not been uncared for. Neither 
has she been forgotten who was willing to share, not 
my fortunes, but my fortune. That which was in- 
tended as a bridal gift, may yet be put to its proper 
use, when the donor shall be numbered with the things 
that were.” Here, in spite of his affected stoicism, the 
thought of death, for which he was so unprepared, 
forced itself upon him with all its terrible reality, and 
a deep, though stifled, groan escaped him. 

Mrs. Ketchum had stood at many a death-bed ; and 
had acquired quite a reputation, among a particular 
class, for the zeal and efficacy with which she had ex- 
horted the dying. But now she knew not what to 
say ; for she was conscious that the hollowness of her 
pretensions, to more piety than her neighbors, was no 
secret to her clear-sighted son. At last she proposed 
to send for her minister. But to this he would by no 
means consent. 

“ Why should you send for him, mother ? What 
nan he do for me ?” 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


191 


“ He will pray with you — pray for you ; — and you 
know ‘ the prayer of the righteous availeth much.’ ” 

“ Not for me,” he answered ; and closing his eyes, 
turned impatiently away, as if to put an end to the 
conversation, a purpose that was fully accomplished 
by the entrance of his medical attendant. 

The great abilities of this gentleman had obtained 
for him admission into many a family, whose doors 
otherwise would have been barred against him, by 
their hatred of his creed ; for he was so old-fashioned, 
as to adhere, alike through good report and through 
evil, to a faith that in this country is too generally 
regarded with jealousy, hatred or contempt. He was 
a Catholic ; thoroughly grounded in the doctrines of 
his church, and practically all which a belief in those 
doctrines required of him ; yet, with all this, no man 
was more popular than Hr. Kirker ; for his skill was 
undoubted, and his candor was equal to his skill. 

He had been absent from his post little more than 
an hour; but in that short time a very great change 
had taken place in the condition of his patient ; and 
he, to whom disease was familiar in all its phases, saw 
at a glance that no hope could be entertained of his 
recovery ; and now went about the performance of 
the most painful part of his duty — to prepare the dy- 
ing man for his speedy dissolution. 

He sat down by the bedside ; and, with the tender- 
ness of a father, informed Edward Ketchum of his 
approaching end ; and then, with the earnestness of 
one to whom the great truths of the Gospel are some- 
thing more than mere speculation, besought him to 


192 


TITR TTETR OF 


think seriously of what he had yet to do to secure his 
eternal welfare. 

Dr. Kirker was animated by no proselytizing spirit. 
Convinced, as he was, of the divine origin of that form 
of Christianity which he professed, it was but reason- 
able that he should wish to see it embraced by the 
whole human family. But, knowing that faith is 
purely the gift of God, he seldom did more than to 
urge upon the dying sinner the necessity of repent- 
ance, without which no man can be saved ; although 
he was ever ready and happy to instruct all, who 
wished for instruction, in the sublime doctrines of the 
Catholic church, which affords so many means of grace 
to the humble and inquiring penitent. In this way, 
he had been an instrument of salvation in the hands 
of the Almighty to many who, through a long life, 
had lived “without God in the world,” and only at 
the close of their mortal career were brought to cry, 
“ Too late have I known thee, O Ancient Truth I 
too late have I loved thee, 0 Ancient Beauty !” 

He now. entered upon the subject of religion with 
his patient; not with the view of combatting the er- 
rors of belief in which, as he thought, the son of Mrs. 
Ketchum must have been nurtured, but simply, for 
the discharge of what he conceived to be an impera- 
tive duty. How great was his pleasure, then, after 
Ketchum had listened with respectful attention to 
what he had to say, on the preparation necessary for 
the great change that must soon take place, to find 
him anxious to know something of the Ancient 
Faith, which, he had been taught to believe, was ut- 


KETGHUM PURCHASE. 


193 


terly unlike that which was professed bj his mother 
and her friends. 

With a lucidness that left nothing for after expla- 
nation, the good Doctor entered upon the desired ex- 
position ; and was rejoiced to find how attentively 
every word was listened to, and how readily it was 
comprehended ; and still more rejoiced to hear — after 
a short time spent in silent self-communing — his pa- 
tient ask that a priest might be brought ; — a request 
that was immediately complied with, by Dr. Kirker 

going himself for the venerable Father Y , whose 

zeal and charity were respected even by those who 
were loudest in condemnation of his creed. The 
earnest desire of the dying man— to be admitted into 
the One Fold — was readily granted, and thus was 
one more soul added to the already goodly number 
of those, whose prayers are constantly offered up be- 
fore the throne, for “ perseverance unto the end” of 
their earthly benefactor. 

The spiritual strength afforded by the reception of 
the “ Food of Angels,” was not without its effect 
upon the sinking frame of the sufferer, which sud- 
denly appeared to acquire a vigor, that awakened 
hopes in many, that it would yet be able to shake off 
the grasp of death. But this change did not deceive 
the experienced physician ; who, knowing the weight 
of sin, under which the mind had labored, to be re- 
moved, expected a temporary renovation of the powers 
of the body, yet knew how futile were those hopes ; 
but feeling no apprehension for the soul’s health of 
nis patient, and wisely thinking, that “ sufficient for 
9 


194 


THE HEIR OF 


the day is the evil thereof,” did nothing to discourage 
them, although he as surel}^ did nothing to keep them 
alive. The expectations of the Doctor were soon re- 
alized. In three days Edward Ketchum was a corpse ; 
and the grief of his mother for his death, was far less 
than her mortification, at finding how little her exam- 
ple had prevailed with him, who, at the moment when 
all earthly considerations are but as dust in the bal- 
ance, could turn, for consolation, from the pure wells 
of evangelical religion, to the broken cisterns of po- 
pery. Yerily, her glory had departed. I 


XX. 

CONCLUSION. 

The day after the funeral of Edward Ketchum, 
which he had attended with a grief unknown to any 
of the “dear five hundred friends,” who filled the 
numerous carriages that ostentatiously paraded Broad- 
way upon this occasion, Alfred paid his first visit to 
the Tombs; when, upon asking if he could be al- 
lowed to see Washington Mallison, he was answered 
in the affirmative, and then placed by the gentlemanly 
keeper under the escort of an officer, who conducted 
him at once to the cell of that wretched young man, 
which was a small room in the upper part of the 
building, well aired and scrupulously clean. 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


195 


Seventeen years had elapsed since the brothers 
.were separated ; — and the effect of time is change ; 
so that the young men might have met in open day, 
and neither have recognized in the other the play- 
mate — or, rather, the fellow-suflferer -r- of his child- 
hood ; but as by the uncertain light of the cell, which 
was admitted through a narrow aperture at the top, 
even friends might have met for a moment as strangers, 
it is little wonder that Alfred could discover in the 
prisoner no resemblance to what be now dimly re- 
membered of his brother W ash. 

News had that morning reached the prisoner of 
Ketchum’s death; and the thought, which he now 
admitted for the first time, . that he was indeed guilty 
of murder, had a most depressing effect upon his 
spirits, which had hitherto been sustained by the hope 
that he was likely to be charged with burglary only ; 
with, perhaps, an attempt to kill ; and so often had he 
listened to the feats of housebreakers, and their adroit- 
ness in escaping from prison, that he had been brought 
to look upon burglary as no crime, and to regard the 
punishment of it as scarcely an evil. 

I have said, that the disposition of this young man 
had been originally good : — that is, speaking after the 
manner of men; — and, notwithstanding his vaunted 
indifference to crime, he had never seriously contem- 
plated the spilling of human blood ; although he 
should have known, that the career upon which he 
had entered so eagerly, seldom stops short of that; 
but he was now a murderer— guilty alike before God 
and man; — and the horror of his crime, or, more 


196 


THE HEIR OF 


properly speaking, the dread of the penalty attached 
to it, had sunk him into a stupor of despair, and he 
was utterly unconscious of the presence of Alfred 
and the officer, until the latter called him by name. 

He raised his face, which had been resting on his 
hands, and demanded, in a surly tone, 

“Well, what’s wanting?” 

“ A gentleman wishes to speak to you,” was the re- 
ply, and the officer stepped outside the door. 

“ Well,” said AVash, looking up in the face of Al- 
fred, “ if you’ve any thing to say to me, say it quick.” 
AVhen glancing at the black dress of his visitor, which 
was worn out of respect to Ketchum, he continued, 
“ 0, you’m one of them ’ere parsons, I s’pose, what go 
about the city preachin’ temperance, an’ morality, an’ 
all that sort o’ thing, to people who’m, maybe, as good 
as theirselves. But you’ve come to the wrong shop. 
I’ve no time for nonsense.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Alfred, with a strong 
effort at composure. “I’m not a clergyman, nor a 
preacher of any kind. I have come as a friend, to 
learn what I can do for you.” 

“Friend!” returned Wash, with a sneer. “You 
mean a lawyer ? But I’m afraid you’ll find my case 
hardly worth undertakin’. Yet, if you’ve a mind to 
try it, you’ll be well paid for your trouble. But it’s 
no use 1” and he shook his head despondingly. 

“ I am not a lawyer — ” Alfred began, when he was 
interrupted by Wash impatiently exclaiming, 

“What the are you then?” 

“ One who has both the means and the will to aid 


KETCHUM PUKCHASE. 


197 


you, if, upon a full knowledge of your case, I find I 
can do so without violating my conscience.” 

“ Oh, I see ! You want me to turn States’ evidence 
against myself. But you don’t come it over this child 
in that ’ere way, old feller.” 

“ That I do not seek the means of injuring you, and 
that I would not injure you if I had the means, you 
will be convinced, when I tell you that — I am your 
brother !” 

Wash started to his feet. He was more than two 
years the elder, and remembered well poor little Jeff, 
and his sudden and mysterious disappearance, which 
he had often importuned his mother to explain, and 
had received no answer but her tears. But the fre- 
quent outpourings of the mother’s sorrow for the loss 
of her child, had kept alive in his heart the memory 
of his brother ; and with feelings of joy — purer than 
any he had known for years — he now stood up before 
him. He did not, however, even offer his hand to 
him he had hugged in his arms a thousand times in 
his infancy — ^for he felt the difference that must ever 
separate the man' of seeming character and the blood- 
stained criminal ; — but, when Alfred threw himself 
upon his neck, there was a mingling of hearts as well 
as of tears. 

From this time, for many succeeding weeks, the 
meeting of the brothers was almost a daily occur- 
rence ; and the effect of these meetings was soon 
proved to be highly beneficial to the prisoner. He 
now began to look upon crime in a new light. Hither- 
to he had viewed it only in its relation to society ; 


198 


THE HEIK OP 


but he now saw that the injury inflicted upon the 
community, was sure, sooner or later, to recoil upon 
the perpetrator ; and what was far better, was soon 
enabled by divine grace to see the enormity that even 
our smallest sins must assume in the sight of Infinite 
Justice. The former consideration brought with it a 
remorse that filled his heart with bitterness; while 
the latter made his soul to overflow with sorrow for 
the past. How consoling is it to the sinner, at a mo- 
ment like this, to know there is One who has said, 
that “ an humble and a contrite heart He will never 
despise and we have reason to hope, with the good 

Father Y , whom Alfred had introduced into the 

cell of his brother, that with “ an humble and a con- 
trite heart” poor Wash at last was blessed. 

In the mean time, as a true bill had been found 
against him, and he was soon to be brought to trial, 
upon a charge of 'wilful murder, Alfred, the only 
friend who stirred in his behalf, for Mallison openly 
declared his wish to see him hanged, was active in his 
endeavors to procure for the prisoner the best counsel 
in the country ; for all of which he was more than re- 
paid by the gratitude of the criminal, the sympathy 
of Mrs. Hollins, and the affectionate approval of his 
noble-hearted Kate. But, except for the gratification 
the recollection must ever afibrd his own breast, his 
efforts might as well have been spared. Wash was 
never called before an earthly tribunal. He, who, for 
His own wise purposes, had permitted him to become 
the minister of His justice, now interposed in his fa- 
vor, and kindly took him hence on the very eve of his 


KETCHUM PUKOHASE. 


199 


trial, and while he was yet ignorant of his relationship 
to his victim. He died repeating these words, which 
he had often heard from the lips of his spiritual father : 

“ Out of the depths I have cried to thee, 0 Lord : 
Lord, hear my voice. 

“ Let thy ears be attentive to the voice of my sup- 
plication. 

“ If thou, 0 Lord, wilt mark iniquities. Lord, who 
shall stand it. , 

“For with thee, there is merciful forgiveness : and 
by reason of thy law I have waited for thee, 0 Lord. 

“ My soul hath relied on his word : my soul hath 
hoped in the Lord. 

“ Because with the Lord there is mercy : and with 
him plentiful redemption.” 

I. p. 


I have little more to relate. By the death of 
Edward Ketchum, the Purchase, according to the 
will of his grandfather, passed to the heir male of old 
Thomas Hooper, who, upon diligent inquiry, proved 
to be no other than our friend Alfred; and Mrs. 
Ketchum, with all her management, lived to see the 
estate, which she would have kept in her family at 
any sacrifice, in possession of the son of poor neg- 
lected Sophy Ingraham. This was the drop of bitter- 
ness that made her cup run o’er ; and from that time 
until her death, which happened but a few months 
since, she was never seen in any of the scenes of her 


200 


THE HEIR OF 


former glory. Close upon the death of the old lady, 
followed the marriage of her whom she had chosen to 
be the bride of her son, and Edward’s bridal gift was 
then put to its proper use. The imprisonment, and 
subsequent death of her son, had fallen with crushing 
weight upon the weak brain of poor Sophy, and she 
sank into utter imbecility, and her death, which fol- 
lowed in a very little while, was regarded as a happy 
relief to the very few who cared for her, and, let us 
hope, a still more happy relief to herself Public in- 
dignation was strongly roused against Mallison, when 
the true story of the misguided W ash became known, 
and leaving the Den, he removed with his ill-gotten 
gear to a sister city, where he resumed his old busi- 
ness, under a new name, with every prospect of suc- 
cess. But his turbulent disposition often led him to 
meddle in the affairs of his neighbors ; and he lost his 
life in a church-burning frolic — -a favorite amusement 
with the people of that part of the world — and as his 
property was without a claimant, it went, of course, to 
the State, and not as much was saved out of it as 
would pay for a stone to his memory. 

Brenton still lives; but broken in health and in 
spirits, and supported — although she will not see 
him — by the bounty of the wife whom he abandoned, 
and most cruelly repudiated, in the morning of her 
life. And she — still adhered to by the faithful Judy — 
lives, honored and beloved, in the family of her 
adopted daughter, who is hardly willing to admit that 
her love for Alfred and her little ones is any stronger 
than that she bears the protectress of her infancy ; and 


KETCHUM PURCHASE. 


201 


this iiTichaiigeableness of affection is one of the most 
beautiful traits in the character of Kate. The ruffians 
who accompanied W ash to the house of Mrs. Ketchum, 
although they escaped that night, have since succeeded 
in working their way up to Sing Sing ; and, though 
last not least, the pious Joel Eoberts, erewhile the 
valet of Edward Ketchum, and lay chaplain of his 
mother, and the aider and abettor, moreover, in many 
a successful burglary, having suddenly left the city 
after the death of his master, although no one sus- 
pected the part he had taken in Wash’s attempt, has, 
after an absence of a few years, returned among us in 
an entirely new character. It seems that, during his 
absence, he attended a gentleman in his travels through 
Europe ; and that, upon two or three occasions, when 
on the continent, they were hospitably entertained in 
certain religious houses. Here, the observant Joel 
saw enough tO' enable him to fabricate something like 
the dress worn by their inmates ; and he is now edi- 
fying the pure and the pious of this hemisphere, with 
lectures on Confession, and the other Abominations 
of Popery — at a shilling a head — under the character 
of a converted Monk 1 


Our opinions of this story were many, and, of 
course, a little contradictory. One thought it too 
long for the interest it was intended to create ; an- 
other that it was quite too short for the full develop- 
ment of the characters introduced — altogether too 
many for the space into which they were crowded — 
9* 


202 HEIR OF KETCHUM PURCHASE. 

and a third, that it was wanting in poetic justice, in 
killing off Ketchum and suffering Brenton to live, as 
if life were not sometimes a greater punishment than 
death. For her part, Kate thought that Mrs. Eollins 
— whose style of thought and expression she pro- 
nounced of the highfiluiin order — was sadly deficient 
in spirit, in decently supporting, in his old age, the 
man who had treated her so shamefully years before. 
She knew it was right to return good for evil, and all 
that ; but it did not seem natural to her that one who 
had suffered so much injury from another, should not 
only forgive the injurer, but actually load him with 
favors : 

“And thereby,” said her mother, “‘heap coals of 
fire upon his head,’ and awake him, if anything could, 
to a just sense of his past undeservings.” 

“ After what we have heard,” said Anastasia, who 
was our next story teller, “ I hardly know how to 
offer anything of mine for your entertainment. But 
if you will excuse the deficiencies of one who has had 
little experience, and is without invention, I will do 
what I can to increase the common stock.” 




A BIT OF MORALITY BY ANASTASIA. 


Rest has come to her at last. 

Alice Caret. 


L 

THE WANT. 

*‘How beautiful!” was the exclamation of almost 
every stranger present, as Eulalie, slightly resting on 
the arm of a young man of noble presence, passed 
gracefully through Mrs. Houghton’s crowded rooms, 
to pay her respects to the mistress of the mansion; 
and the exclamation was invariably followed by the 
question, “ Who is she?” 

“It is Eulalie, the poetess,” was the answer; “ one 
of the most accomplished, as well as most beautiful 
women of the day. And, it may be added, one of 
the most fortunate also; for, besides being the only 
child of a millionaire, she has just become the wife 
of one already highly distinguished in his profession 


204 


EULALIE. 


of the law, and who bids fair to equal in a few years 
the greatest orators of the land.” 

“How happy she must be!” sighed a pale little 
lady, a poetess too, whose whole life had been an un- 
successful struggle with untoward circumstances ; and 
in these words she only echoed the general voice. 

Yes, Eulalie was beautiful, accomplished, and emi- 
nently fortunate ; fortunate, not merely in the world’s 
meaning of that word, but fortunate in the early pos- 
session of fame, the coveted treasure of the poet, and 
in the rich return of love already made to her own 
free gift of affection. But was she happy? They 
who saw her only, as on this night, surrounded by 
admiring throngs, would have answered. Yes. And 
they who knew her only as the successful poetess 
would have answered. Yes. And the poor, the recip- 
ients of her bounty, who ever coupled a blessing with 
her name, would also have answered, Yes. Yet any 
one who had marked the peculiar smile that curled at 
times her beautiful lip ; the sadness that, in her gayest 
moments, would suddenly cloud her radiant counte- 
ance; the shadow, as of some unrevealed grief, that 
ever lay in the depths of her clear dark eyes, would 
have hesitated before he gave the same answer. 

Ho, strange as it may seem, Eulalie, whose flower- 
strewed path through life had been all sunshine, whose 
cup had been brimmed with the wine of gladness, 
whose head had ever been pillowed on some true and 
loving heart, and who had never given utterance to a 
wish that was not gratified, was not happy. It was 
in vain that she repeated to herself the plaudits of the 


EULALIE. 


205 


•world, and strove to reason her heart into a belief of 
its happiness. All would not do. However she 
might impose upon others, she could not impose upon 
herself. There was a void in her heart that nothing 
yet had filled — a yearning that nothing yet had satis- 
fied ; and nightly as she lay her head upon the pil- 
low, weary in her vain pursuit of pleasure, she repeated 
again and again the words of the wise man of old, 
“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity I” 


11 . 

THE DEEAM. 

That night Eulalie dreamed that, while walking in 
a beautiful lane, hedged on eithei side with flowering 
shrubs and trees of luxuriant foliage, and vocal with 
the songs of birds, she was met by a man of majestic 
appearance, whose face was that of one of middle age, 
but whose hair and beard were white as wool, and 
whose only garment was a simple tunic of white, that 
reached a little below the knee. 

“ Who art thou ?” she asked. 

“ Time, the Destroyer,” he answered. “ Behold my 
work.” And the scene was instantly changed, and 
she found herself alone upon a plain that extended 
afar to the sea, upon whose shore lay the wrecks of 
many a goodly bark, that were rotting piece by piece 
away. 


206 


EULALIE. 


She looked around her and saw nothing but ruins. 
Temples, and palaces, and triumphal arches, were, as 
bj some convulsion of nature, alike cast down, and the 
peasant had built his hut — now also a ruin — among 
their broken columns, while unclaimed herds were 
browsing the scanty herbage that forced its way up 
among scattered fragments of a mighty amphitheatre, 
where thousands upon thousands had shouted with 
delight at the exhibition of human ferocity and human 
suffering : and away to the right she beheld what had 
once been a city, now almost buried beneath the sand- 
drifts of uncounted ages. 

Then again the scene changed, and she stood alone, 
before a yawning cavern, the gloom of which no hu- 
man eye could penetrate, and at her feet lay the corse 
of a shrivelled old man. This she knew to be the 
entrance to the Yalley of the Shadow of Death, and 
he at her feet was Time — Time lying dead at the 
threshold of Eternity. And wondering, she awoke. 


III. 

BLIND NANNIE. 

The next morning Eulalie rose with a weight upon 
her spirits — the effect, no doubt, of her strange 
dream — that no effort of hers could remove ; and 
whether she busied herself with the affairs of her 


EULALIE. 


207 


houseliold, or tried a song on tlie piano, or attempted 
to call home her wandering thoughts, and array them 
in her own peculiarly graceful verses, ’twas all the 
same — she could find no relief to the sadness that 
weighed upon her heart, and sat down at last in a 
state of almost hopeless despondency. 

At this moment came “a knocking at her door,” 
and the knock was immediately followed by the ap- 
pearance of a little old woman, dressed in a sad-col- 
ored stuff gown, with an enormous caleche on her 
head, that suffered but little to be seen of a face much 
disfigured by small-pox, and pretty effectually con- 
cealed the broad green fillet that bound her eyeless 
sockets. 

“ 0, I^annie,” said Eulalie, kindly, rising and 
leading the blind woman to a seat, “you are early 
abroad this morning.” 

“ The day is nearly half gone. Madam, and I was 
up before the sun.” 

“ It must be very hard for one like you to have to 
rise so early.” 

“Not at all. Madam. We who work all day are 
blessed with such sound sleep at night, that the indul- 
gence of a morning nap is quite unnecessary.” 

“ 0 how beautiful !” exclaimed Eulalie, taking from 
the hands of the woman the netting she had brought 
home. “Eeally, Nannie, in this you have outdone 
yourself.” 

“ It is a pleasure. Madam, to exert oneself, when sure 
of the praise that you are so ready to bestow upon 
success. We, who have to labor for our daily bread, 


208 


EULALIE. 


ought, and do, I believe, receive with thankfulness 
the money we may earn. But money is not all we 
work for, though ’tis generally the most that we get,” 
said Nannie, and notwithstanding the slight reproach, 
of those who pay grudgingly what they owe, contained 
in her words, there was nothing of unkindness or que- 
rulousness in her tone. 

“ Nannie,” said Eulalie, as the blind woman, after 
receiving her money, rose to depart, “ there is a secret 
in your keeping that I wish to make myself mistress 
of.” 

“ If it does not in any way compromise another, 
you have only to tell me what it is, and it is 
yours.” 

“ It is simply to know how one afflicted as you are, 
can always appear so happy?” 

“ I not only appear happy. Madam, but am so. It 
is true, I am poor, and blind, and old. But poverty 
should not be regarded by the Christian as wholly evil, 
since it was the chosen condition of Him to whom be- 
longed not only ‘the earth and the fulness thereof,^ 
but all that the eye of Infinity surveys. Blindness, 
you will say, must shut out from me all that the earth 
has beautiful to look upon, and so it does. But it 
also preserves me from sinning with my eyes, and 
obliges me to a frequent contemplation of the world 
within ; and unlovely as age may appear to the young 
and prosperous, it is not altogether without its charms 
to the weary wayfarer in the journey of life, who feels 
that every step towards the grave, brings him so much 
nearer his eternal rest. Ah, Madam, did we but be- 


EULALIE. 


209 


lieve in our hearts, what we so often profess with our 
lips, that whatever comes to us from the hand of God, 
is meant only for our good, the most wretched among 
us would have little cause for unhappiness.” 


lY. 


THE WANT SUPPLIED. 


“ Sit down again, Nannie,” said Eulalie, leading her 
back to the seat she had left, “ and let us talk a little 
more of your philosophy.” 

' The blind woman smiled. 

“ I have no philosophy,” she answered. “ That 
which you call philosophy, I know only as religion.” 

“ Keligion ! How often,” said Eulalie, sadly, “ have 
I been told of religion, and its wonderful power of 
transmuting the miseries of life — the stones that lie in 
our path — into the pure gold of blessings ; but, though 
T have tasked my intellect in search of it, I have not 
been able to find it.” 

“ Simply because you did not seek aright. 0, my 
dear lady, if you could divest yourself of the pride of 
intellect, as easily as you can cast aside an ill-befitting 
garment, and, arrayed in humility of spirit, place your- 
self as a learner in the humble school of Christianity, 
you would not be long in finding that which you have 
hitherto sought in vain.” 


210 


EULALIE. 


Eulalie did not hesitate to follow the advice of the 
blind woman ; and, placing herself at the feet of one 
commissioned to teach, soon became an apt scholar in 
the science of religion ; and that, which she had till 
now regarded as the unattainable, was found by no 
means difficult to possess. She was afterwards made 
to bear many trials, from which few are exempt. But 
though the wealth that had made her the envy of hun- 
dreds was swept suddenly away; though the husband, 
upon whose support she hoped to rely throughout 
the wear}^ journey of life, in the very prime and pride 
of manhood was struck down by her side ; and though 
the hard won wreath of poetic fame was torn rudely 
from her brow, there was no longer a void in her 
heart that could not be filled, a yearning that could 
not be satisfied. She had found at last that peace 
which the world can neither give nor take away. 


“ 0, sister mine,” said Kate, “ what a pity it is our 
Church will not admit women to orders. The pulpit 
is certainly the place for which you were intended by 
nature. But there, don’t look so mortified, child. 
Your story is a very good one, though it does sound 
so much like a sermon of good Father Drawl’s. And 
now, grandpapa, we’ll thank you for your contribu- 
tion to our ‘ Literary Fund.’ ” 


A LEGEND BY GRANDEATHER GREENWAY. 


By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased. 

Shakspkarb. 


PROEM. 

/ 

When some who now are bowed and old, 

And some who in their graves are cold, 

Were boys, whose stout young hearts beat high 
With hope — and of their number I — 

Upon a hill, from which a man, 

Without much effort, could have thrown 
Into the noble stream, that ran 
Close at its base, a good sized stone. 

There stood a house which once had been — 
’Twas long before my time, I ween — 

As some averred, a stately dwelling. 

By far all neighboring ones excelling. 

But now it had a weird look ; 

And, in its dress of faded white. 

Might easily have been mistook 


212 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


For some old mansion’s ghost at night. 

And though we laughed, and wagged our heads, 
And shouted as we passed it by. 

When heaven and earth were bright, and shone 
The sun in glory in the sky. 

Of all our band there was not one 
Would pass it when the day was done. 

The chimneys, that no use had known 
For many a day, to earth were thrown ; 

The broken roof let in the rain ; 

The windows were without a pane ; 

The doors so long had open stood, 

You could not shut them if you would ; 

And in the parlors, in the hall. 

And in the goodly chambers all. 

Were piles of withered leaves, that lay 
On heaps of dust there raised by slow decay. 

Around this mansion once had lain 
A rich and beautiful domain, 

Which one, who of an after race 
Bethought, had thickly planted o’er 
With trees and shrubs, that fruit or flower 
Each in its proper season bore ; 

And these to guard from wanton boys, 

The idle and the ill-disposed 
That suburbs aye infest, within 
A good stone wall inclosed. 

But soon, in our unstable clime. 

Neglect will do the work of Time. 

That wall so strong was now o’erthrown, 

And not a stone left on a stone ; 

And though the trees — grown wild — that still 
Remained, put forth their leaves in spring. 

With here and there a blossom, none 
Did fruit unto perfection bring. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


218 


The lilac, currant, and the rose, 

Had disappeared, or if a few 
Still lingered, it was only where 
Rank weeds or grass so thickly grew 
Around them, one must wonder how 
Their lives had been prolonged till now ; 
And house and grounds a common fate 
Had shared — and all alike were desolate ! 

It now were vain that house to seek ; 

And just as vain to seek the hill 
Where erst it stood, for here, alas I 
Is nothing suffered to stand still, 

But Change still follows Change so fast, 

The new comes ere the old is passed ! 

And if that T, who have not stirred 
Abroad for years — ah me ! how many !— 

Of places to my heart endeared 
By memory, now can scarce find any — 

Or, if the place should be the same, 

Gone is the old familiar name, — 

What wonder if the thousands, who 
Through crowded streets their ways pursue, 
Where once they were should daily pass, 
And never dream that either was ? 

Yet of that house have I to tell 
A tale, should make it be remembered well. 


214 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


I. 


I must be mad ; but so is all the world. 

Folly. It matters not. What is the world 
To me? Nought. I am all things to myself. 

Festus. 

It is pitiful to think that there have been those 
who, after a pilgrimage of three score years and ten, 
have passed from this world to the world beyond the 
grave, without having made one real friend, or left 
behind them one who, except through the promptings 
of Christian charity, would beg of God to have mercy 
upon their poor souls! Yet such, unhappily, there 
have been; and of this number was Heinrich Car- 
stein, who, having been placed by Heaven in a posi- 
tion in which, by proper use of the means committed 
to his stewardship, he could hardly have failed to 
gain the love and respect of his fellow-man, and, 
what is of infinitely more value, the approbation of 
his own heart — or rather of that power enthroned in 
every heart, and which so sternly reprehends us when 
we offend against it — yet went on “laying up wrath 
against the day of wrath,” until his death, violent 
and bloody though it was, was hailed by all as a uni- 
versal blessing. 

He died and left no friend. Yet it can hardl3^ be 
said that he had never made one ; for he had, indeed, 
made many. But, like too many in the world, he 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


215 


had found it much easier to make friends than to 
k^ep them. His was a strange nature ; for although 
he could be friendly, almost gracious, to a mere ac- 
quaintance, to those who had real claims upon his 
kindness, and whom he should have cherished most, 
because the most deserving of his love and con- 
fidence, he was so harsh and exacting that they fell 
from him one by one, until, in his old age, he stood in 
solitary malignity, a moral Upas, blasting every thing 
around him ; when no beggar was willing to stop at 
his gate, nor would even a dog of his household gam- 
bol about him. 

His wife, a beautiful woman, and by many years 
his junior, who had married him in obedience to the 
commands of her father, was of a nature too gentle 
to bear up against the stern humor of her husband, 
and she looked in the face of Death with a smile, 
when he came to summon her hence a few years after 
her marriage. But the smile soon faded from her 
pale lips, and a deep sigh foljowed, when she thought 
how selfish she had become, in wishing to pass away 
into the quiet of the grave, knowing, as she did, that 
after she was gone, there would be no one to stand be- 
tween her little son and the cold, exacting selfishness 
of his father. She then prayed for life ; but her 
prayer was vain, for she died in a few hours; and 
sorrow, which softens most hearts, seemed to render 
still harder the strange hard heart of Heinrich Car- 
stein. 

The child, left friendless by the death of his mother, 
was about five years old. In features and complexion 


216 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


he was very lil^^ the parent he had lost, bat in dispo- 
sition too much like his surviving one; and this de- 
fect in his nature, which judicious treatment might 
have corrected, was made worse by the course pur- 
sued by his stern and unnatural father. Kindness he 
never knew ; even gentle admonition he never re- 
ceived; but was bidden do this, or that, with a threat 
that any neglect of the commands of his arbitrary 
parent would be visited with the severest chastise- 
ment; and the threat was always made good. And 
the slightest punishment for even a venial fault, was 
to be severely flogged, or confined in a garret room 
for two or three days upon bread and water. 

Things went on in this way for years,” until endur- 
ance ceased to be a virtue; for, as it had sunk into the 
slavish submission of fear, it could not be elevated 
into the dignity of Christian forbearance ; when one 
day, for a fault which from another would hardly 
have been thought deserving of a reprimand, Ulric 
was summoned to the garret to receive his customary 
flogging. He attended the summons, as usual ; but 
not as usual did he strip to receive the threatened 
chastisement. Instead of this, he turned to his father 
with a look of determination, and said in a tone not 
to be mistaken : 

“Father, there must be an end of this sometime, 
and it may as well be now as at a future day. I am 
too old to be treated like a child, and too much of a 
man to submit to the chastisement of a slave. With 
my own consent, you. shall never strike me more.” 

“ Then I will without it,” said the old man fi.ercely, 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


217 


and, trembling with passion, he raised the cowhide 
aloft, which in another moment would have descended 
in vengeance upon the shoulders of his son, if the 
youth had not suddenly caught it in his hands. 

“Father!” he shouted in tones as fierce as the 
other’s, “forbear! I would not willingly raise my 
hand against you, but sooner than you shall strike 
me, I will try which is the better man,” and wresting 
the whip from the old man’s grasp, threw it out of the 
window. 

Heinrich Carstein never thereafter attempted to in- 
flict personal chastisement upon his son, but pursued 
towards him a series of petty annoyances that, to one 
of a less resolute spirit, would have been perfectly 
unendurable. But Ulric regarded them not; and, 
being no longer restrained by the fear of punishment, 
gave a free rein to the desires of an undisciplined 
heart, and soon became known as a leader in every 
act of profligacy which disgraced at that early day 
his native town. 

At the time of his marriage Carstein was consid- 
ered, at least, tolerably rich ; but, by the great im- 
provements made in that part of the town in which 
his paternal acres lay, had in a few years become im- 
mensely so. But the mode of living he had at first 
adopted he never departed from, and in the plain old- 
fashioned house, built by his father on the bank of 
the river, with a few blacks to do the ordinary work 
of his family, the master of thousands was content to 
live, and obliged his son — the heir of all this wealth — 
to suit himself, as best he could, to the contracted 
10 


'218 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


views of bis strange and narrow-minded father. Was 
this from parsimony? No. It was simply to gratify 
his own evil nature at the expense of the happiness 
of another. 

It had been predicted, by the gossips of the neigh- 
borhood, that the place, left vacant by the death of 
Mrs. Carstein, would soon be filled, and some went so 
far as even to name the individual who was to fill it. 
Yet sixteen years were passed, and there was no more 
appearance of a verification of that predictk)n than at 
the hour in which it was made. Heinrich Carstein 
was still a widower; and such it was now supposed 
he would remain ; when suddenl}^ a strange rumor 
got abroad — how, no one could exactly say — that the 
old house was soon to have a new mistress, aye, and 
a young one — beautiful, too, and, for the time in 
which she lived, highly accomplished. And, for once, 
Eumor told the truth. 


IL 

Though sore the heart be moved, lady, 

When bound to break its vow — 

Yet if we ever loved, lady, 

We must forego it now. Fkstus. 

Among the tenants of Carstein was a Madame 
Montmartin, a lady who, in her time, had been ex- 
posed to many vicissitudes of fortune, all of which 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


219 


she had borne with the fortitude of a Christian. On 
a voyage from her native country, France, to the 
French settlement in Louisiana, the vessel that she 
was in, of which her husband was master and princi- 
pal owner, was wrecked, and all on board perished, 
except herself and the infant at her breast. They, 
when the danger was thought imminent, had been 
placed, with some w'ater and a few stores, in a boat, 
that was borne away upon the breast of the wave 
which overwhelmed forever their struggling bark. 
For three long stormy days, and three dark dreadful 
nights, she remained driven to and fro upon the wild 
and treacherous ocean. But, although she sorrowed 
deeply, she did not despair. The memory of a little 
song, that she had often heard from the lips of a pious 
mother, came like the whisper of Hope amid the 
bowlings of the storm, to quiet her fears, and fill her 
heart with confidence in the protection of the Moiher 
of her Lord. 

She was at length picked up, although in a most 
exhausted state, by a Danish brig from St. Thomas, 

that was to make the port of , where Madame 

Montmartin and her little Amelie found friends and a 
home. 

She had now to begin the world anew ; and finding 
that her skill in music and painting, and even in em- 
broidery, was less prized by the people among whom 
her lot had been so strangely cast, than her ability to 
frame a bonnet, fashion a cap, or make a dress, with 
the tact of a true Frenchwoman, she undertook that 
which she thought would be most rapidly appreciated, 


220 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


and was soon enabled by her industrj^— female indus- 
try was not then thought degrading— to provide for 
herself and her infant charge. 

But the trials of Madame Montmartin were not yet 
at an end. A few months before the time of which I 
am speaking, she fell into bad health, and, as the time 
of Amelie was now taken up in attendance upon her, 
the little stock of money she had been able to lay by 
was soon exhausted, and in a little while she found 
herself in debt to her landlord, without the means, or 
even the prospect, of cancelling it, except in the way 
proposed by Carstein, and that was, to give him, as an 
equivalent, the hand of her daughter. 

To this the poor woman at first indignantly refused 
to listen. But when the alternative was a prison — for 
even women were then subject to the barbarity of im- 
prisonment for debt — she yielded a reluctant consent ; 
and the gentle Amelie, who had no will but her 
mother’s, prepared herself for the sacrifice. 

And ikwas a sacrifice. When a very young girl, 
AmMie had gone to the same school with Ulric Car- 
stein, and an attachment had sprung up between 
them that was likely to last — on her part, at least — for 
life ; for though no stranger to the faults and follies — 
not to give them a harsher name' — that for the last 
few years had been laid to his charge, she still felt as 
warmly and as kindly towards him as in the days of 
his innocent, suffering childhood. And yet she was 
going to be marriqd to another ; and that .other 
father! Her heart died within her at the thought; 
yet she suffered, without an audible murmur, the pre- 


THE TWO SPIKITS. 


221 


parations for the nuptials to go forward, for bj them 
she should render happy the declining years of her 
mother, and so much oblige the kind old man who 
seemed to live but for her ! 

To live but for her ? Poor simple girl ! Heinrich 
Carstein was as blind to her beauty as he was insen- 
sible to her worth; and would, could he by such 
means attain the end he had in view, as soon have 
bound himself to age and deformity, as to the purity 
and grace united in the person of the young and lovely 
Amelie. His only object in the marriage was to 
wring the heart of his son, who, as he had learned, 
was in love with this chit, and whom, since he had 
placed him at defiance, he had hated with a most ran- 
corous hatred, shocking to behold in one man towards 
another, but terrible when manifested by a parent to- 
wards his child ; and to raise up a new family, that 
might one day deprive him of the rich inheritance 
upon which he believed his son to be looking with a 
longing eye, he thought would be the surest way to 
revenge himself upon this unfortunate youth. 

O ye, to whom the guardianship of the young is 
entrusted, look narrowly to yourselves, lest by any 
means you “ offend one of those little ones.” Inter- 
ests — not of this world only, but of eternity — are in 
your hands. Your words, your actions, nay, your in- 
most thoughts — betrayed in the tone of the voice or 
glance of the eye — are fraught with consequences not 
to be calculated to the immortal beings who surround 
you. The human heart can never remain long unpro- 
ductive. It must bear something; flowers or weeds, 


222 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


wheat or tares, love or hatred, as it is properly watched 
over and cultivated, or left open to the inroads of the 
evil passions of our fallen nature. And if, by precept 
or example, or the want of example, the germ of love 
is destroyed in the youthful breast, its place will very 
soon be filled by a plant of an opposite quality ; and 
while the dews of Divine Grace are necessary to keep 
alive the former, the latter thrives and grows strong 
amid the hot and baleful blasts of domestic strife. 
But he “ who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind,” 
and sudden destruction shall assuredly overtake all 
who turn to evil uses the meanest of the gifts of God, 
This was the sin of Heinrich Carstein. For the grat- 
ification of a heart that had said to Evil, “ Be thou my 
Good,” he had trampled out the love which a benefi- 
cent Creator had planted in the bosom of his son, and 
encouraged, in its stead, the growth of hatred and all 
uncharitableness. In this manner he had sown the 
wind. 


III. 

Satilla. — Can you suspect who may have murdered him ? 
Bernardo. — I know not what to think. 

Savilla. — Can you name any 

Who had an interest in his death ? 

Bernardo. — Alas! 

I can name none who had not, and those most 

Who most lament that such a deed was done. — ^The Cenol 

One Saturday, about a month before the day named 
for the wedding of his father and Amelie, Ulric left 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


223 


honv^i^o join a party of young friends, who, for the 
purposes of fishing and sea-bathing, had gone for a 
week to an island not far from the town. He did not 
inform the old gentleman of his intention to absent 
himself at that time, either because he did not think 
his permission to do so at all necessary, or was unwill- 
ing, at that particular moment, to interfere with the 
amusement of his worthy progenitor, who was exer- 
cising himself with the cowhide, of which his son had 
once had such a thorough knowledge, upon the back 
and shoulders of a poor boy, named Jake, one of his 
slaves, who had been guilty of some trifling misde- 
meanor. This going without leave had become a cir- 
cumstance of such frequent occurrence of late, that 
the elder Carstein scarcely even alluded to it in his 
brief conversations with his son, and the son never 
thought of apologizing to his father, for the want of 
respect so apparent in such a proceeding. 

In passing through the town, he paused for a few 
moments at the door of Madame Montmartin. It was 
evidently his intention first to enter it; but was pre- 
vented by hearing, in the sweet voice of Amelie, to an 
air originally gay, but which, modulated by the feel- 
ings of the singer, was now touchingly sad, the fol- 
lowing 


CANZOI^ET. 

“The Love the poet sings 
Is ideal, 

. Or soon it taketh wings : 
But the real, 

A glow o’er earthly things 


224 


THE TWO SPIEITS. 


Of heaven’s own radiance flings ; 

And to the Love that’s real 
Bo angels touch their strings 
Not to the ideal. 

“ Then give thy heart to Love 
Freely give it ; 

And angels will approve. 

Wholly give it, 

If the dear God above — 

The true and only Love — 

Thou wouldest should receive it, 

And him that gives approve, 

Freely, wholly give it.” 

Give thine as thou wilt, contented idiot!’' muttered 
Ulric through his clenched teeth, as he walked rap- 
idly away, and in half an hour was rowing lustily 
out into the beautiful bay that encircled the island on 
which his friends were encamped. 

The party he joined, if not as refined as some of the 
parties of our own day, was, at least, as merry as the 
best of them ; and there was no frolic proposed for 
their enjoyment, that Ulric did not enter into with as 
much spirit as the wildest madcap of them all. They 
rowed and swam, ran, jumped and wrestled, sang and 
danced, drank and smoked, and told stories, the hu- 
mor of which could but poorly atone for their want of 
decency and of reverence. In this manner they spent 
the Saturday, most of Saturday night, and the whole 
of the next day — Sunday though it was — without 
paying the slightest regard to its sacred character — 
until compelled by weariness to give over ; and when 
Ulric laid himself down among his companions, for 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


225 


the little time that was to intervene between the hour 
of rest and that which was to summon them back to 
town, no one seemed better disposed than he to make 
all he could of a few hours sleep. 

At an early hour next morning the revellers left the 
island and returned home ; bat, unwilling to ^part 
company as long as there was a possibility of keeping 
together, many of them accompanied Ulric as far as 
the great gate in front of his father’s house. Here 
they were met by an unwonted spectacle. The 
grounds, on which very few had ever before ventured 
to trespass, were now covered with people of all ages 
and conditions, who seemed in a wonderful state of 
excitement. 

As soon as Ulric was recognized by those nearest 
the gate, a general rush was made towards him, and 
scores of voices shouted in his ears, one long and dis- 
mal “ Oh!” 

“What is the matter?” he demanded of an old 
negro woman, who appeared at the head of the troop. 

“ Ole Masser I ole Masser 1” 

“ What of him, Heechy ?” 

“Dead, Masser Ully, dead I” 

“Dead ?” 

“ Dead, Masser Ully. Kill in him’s bed !” 

“ 0 impossible 1” exclaimed the young man, his 
face becoming suddenly blanched, and his whole 
frame quivering. “ Who would have done such a 
thing as that?” 

“Nobody know,” answered the old woman, with a 
sorrowful shake of her head. 

10 * 


226 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


“ I guess somebody doos know, though,” said a tall, 
thin New England woman, with a hooked nose much 
used to Scotch snuff. “ When the diski very of the 
old man’s death wor made, and the neighbors insisted 
that the Crowner should be fetched, or what’s jist the 
same. Squire Yan Ingen, as a_ matter of course, all 
the folks about the house had to be got together, 
when lo and behold ! one of the slaves was a missin’, 

a boy called Jake, that ” 

“ 0 Missis !” said old Neechy, in a deprecating tone, 
“ don’t go for to ’cuse dat boy. A poor orphant, what 
ha’n’t got nobody to care for him, but him’s poor old 
granny. Yawpy neber do it.” 

“ Maybe so, maybe so,” returned the woman sharply. 
“ But, at any rate, he wa’n’t forthcomin’ when called 
for, nor a’n’t yet ; and more than that, a boat is gone 
out of the boat-house, that can’t be found nowhere.” 

Ulric waited to hear no more ; but, attended by his 
companions proceeded, through the crowd to the house, 
where, after a pretty hard struggle, he entered the 
room where the old man lay dead, and where the 
Coroner’s j ury was still sitting. 

The contemplation of death, if not always painful, 
is, at least, always saddening, and the companions of 
Ulric gazed upon the rigid form before them with 
moistened eyes, and feelings very near akin to awe. 
But the son of the murdered man stood by the corse 
of his father, without exhibiting the slightest sign of 
emotion; yet, to one who had watched him more 
closely than those that were gathered about him, it 
might have been seen that his lips were tightly com- 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


227 


pressed, and his chee^ bloodless, that his brow was 
sternly contracted, and his eyes were wild and glassy, 
and that there was more of horror, and even of terror, 
in his face than sorrow for his great and irreparable loss. 

The old man had been found dead in his bed — ap- 
parently smothered in his sleep, for, though his face 
was blackened and most frightfully distorted, there 
were no marks of violence upon him, and it was 
agreed by all that the dreadful deed had been com- 
mitted by the negro lad who was missing, in revenge 
for the ill treatment he had received at the hands of 
his master, and the jury returned a verdict accordingly. 

Carstein, unloved though he was in life, was yet 
honored in his death by one of the most magnificent 
funerals which had ever been known in that part of 
the world ; at which refreshments — that made the 
house appear more like one of feasting than of mourn- 
ing — were freely distributed to all who would receive 
them ; after which twelve gray-h aired men of the 
highest respectability, accompanied, as pall bearers, 
the poor remains of the late rich man to their final 
resting-place, in which they were laid with all possi- 
ble respect. Yes, with all possible respect for the 
perishable body, but none for the immortal soul ; for 
over the grave of Carstein no prayer was uttered 
either for the dead or the living. As he had called 
himself a Catholic, even while living in open con- 
tempt of all the precepts of the faith that he pro- 
fessed, no clergyman of another denomination felt it 
his duty to assist in “burying the dead,” and there 
was no priest of his church then living in the colony. 


228 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


lY. 


He is attached ; 

Call him to present trial ; if he may 
Find mercy in the Law, ’tis his ; if none, 

Let him not seek ’t of us. 

King Henry VIII. 

Love — not of justice, nor yet of the murdered man, 
but the sordid love of money — for the Governor had 
offered one hundred pounds reward for the apprehen- 
sion of the murderer — prompted many of the idlers 
of the town to set off immediately in pursuit of the 
black boy, on whom suspicion had at first so naturally 
fallen, as the one who had suffered most from the evil 
disposition of his master, and which by his secret 
flight, was now turned into certainty, with the least 
prejudiced; and, as stages were little known and less 
used, the poor fugitive, who had fled on foot, was 
soon overtaken by his mounted pursuers, and brought 
back to undergo the penalty due to his crime, for it 
need hardly be added, that the trial to which he was, 
for form’ sake, subjected must end in his condem- 
nation. 

Jake, having listened with apparent apathy to the 
charge against him, the testimony that went to fasten 
the crime upon him, and the verdict of “ Guilty !” 
which, without leaving their seats, was returned by 
the jury, when asked the usual question, “ Why sen- 
tence of death should not be pronounced against him?” 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


229 


looking confidently in the face of the judge, answered 
calmly and clearly, 

“ Cos, Masser, I no do it.” 

He then, in the tone and manner of one who, satis- 
fied with the truth of what he is going to say, believes 
no one can disbelieve him, proceeded to tell, in the 
jargon of his class, a story, which may be rendered 
into English as follows : 

“ Old Master, as everybody knows, was very cross, 
but crosser to me than any one else, flogging me 
morning, noon, and night, whether I was good or bad, 
so that I wished him dead a thousand times. But I 
did not kill him. The last time he flogged me, I said 
in my own mind I will run away ; and so the next 
night when I went to bed, I did not go to sleep as 
usual, but only made believe sleep, until I was sure 
Granny could not hear me ; when I got up and stole 
out of the house, and went down to the river to get a 
boat. The night was very dark — black as my hand 
—and I could hardly see the boat-house when I got 
to it. Just then I thought I heard the sound of oars, 
and I stopped to listen. It came nearer and nearer, 
and presently I heard the grating of a boat’s keel 
upon the sand, and, in a moment after, some one 
coming up the path from the river ; and I hardly had 
time to step aside, when a person passed me, and 
walked cautiously towards the house. 

“ I thought, whoever he was, he did not mean any 
good, so I turned and followed close upon his steps. 
He got to the house first, and went in at the back 
door. I did the same; when, losing all sound of 


230 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


him, I began to be afraid, thinking it had not been a 
man, but a spook, and went to hide myself in the 
kitchen. 

“By and by, I fancied I heard something going 
on up stairs, in the direction of old Master’s room. 
First it seemed like a slight scuffle. Then there was 
such a noise as Granny used sometimes to make in 
her sleep ; and finally some one came down the stairs, 
walked quickly, but very lightly, through the hall, 
and passed out at the back door. I had placed 
myself behind the kitchen door, which stood partly 
open. There was a little fire on the hearth, and, by 
the light it gave, I saw the face of the man as he 
passed the crack of the door. It ivas a white man. 
After he was gone, I returned to the boat-house, took 
a boat, and rowed over to the other shore ; and, after 
wandering about for three days, with only some raw 
corn and apples to eat, I was found and brought 
back ; — and that is all.” 

There was a dead silence for several moments, 
which was broken by the Court asking, if he had 
ever seen that man before. 

“ Can’t say, Masser,” was the answer. 

“Have you seen him since?” 

“ Can’t say, Masser.” 

“Would you know him, if you did see him?” 

“ Tink so, Masser.” 

“Then look around upon this crowd, and tell us 
if you see any one here like him.” 

The boy did as he was directed; and after looking 
long and anxiously around, dropped his eyes to the 
floor, and answered, 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


231 


I no see ’em, Masser.” 

It is needless to add, that the storj of the prisoner 
was regarded by all — save one — as a mere fabrication, 
and the Judge proceeded at once to pass upon him 
the sentence of the law, which takes from the Al- 
mighty the power that He alone should possess over 
the lives of His creatures, and the boy was given 
back to the charge of the jailer, followed by sobs and 
exclamatfons of pity from the numerous blacks that 
mingled with the crowd, and the loud cries of unre- 
strainable grief of his poor old grandmother. 


V. 

ril have thee burned! — W inter’s Tale. 

The sentence of the Law — the terrible sentence of 
death by fire !— had been passed upon the slave, and 
yet, after the first outburst of despairing passion, he 
seemed utterly unconscious of the fate that awaited 
him, and ate and slept as usual, until the very morning 
of the execution. This indifference was attributed by 
most to the natural stolidity of his race, and by others 
to the hope of pardon which he might yet entertain. 
Jake had always been a favorite with his young 
master, from a feeling of pity, perhaps, for the ill- 
Ireatment to which he saw him daily subjected, who — 
which was considered rather a strange proceeding on 
his part — had been two or three times to visit him in 


234 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


and closed again upon it, like the waters of the ocean 
in the wake of some mighty vessel, as the procession 
moved slowly, and with measured tread, up the hill, 
until it rested on its top. Then the boy was brought 
forward, and forced to mount a pile of dry, resinous 
wood, which had been built against a stake that was 
driven deep into the earth, and to which he was in- 
stantly bound by chains around his body, arms and 
legs. 

The missionary mounted the pile with him. 

“ Father,” said Jake, his whole frame convulsed 
with terror, “ what can this mean ? They will not, 
will not burn me? Young master will not surely 
deceive poor Jake?” 

“ I know not that,” returned the father, with a 
melancholy shake of his head. “But, if he should, 
the Great Master will not. Look then up to Him, 
not for deliverance from these torments, that can kill 
the body only, but those eternal ones in which the 
soul shall writhe forever. Prepare thyself for the 
worst.” 

“ But must I forgive him, if he leaves me to 
perish ?” 

“ Thou must, as thou hopest to be forgiven.” 
Then placing his crucifix before the eyes of the 
youth, he continued: “Look upon Him, who, far 
more innocent than any created being, suffered a 
shameful and most cruel death, to redeem his fallen 
creatures from the power of the devil ; and learn, by 
his example, to forgive all mankind.” 

“ I will try — but 0, ’tis very hard !” said the poor 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


235 


slave, as the large tears rolled down his face, which 
were kindly wiped away by the hand of the pitying 
missionary. 

All preparation being now ready, the good father 
was desired to descend from the pile, which, after 
taking a solemn leave of the condemned, and blessing 
the wretched boy in the name of Him whose servant 
he was, he did. Then the executioner approached, 
and thrusting his torch into the pile, set it instantly 
into a blaze, which, rushing fiercely up to seize upon 
its prey, almost smothered in its hoarse roar the wild 
and terrible cry of human agony that burst from the 
heart of its victim. 


YI. 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers for the bride to wear. 

They were born to blush in her shining hair. 

She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth, 

She hath bid farewell to her parent’s hearth, 

Her place is now by another’s side — 

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride. 

Mrs. Hemans. 


I have dreamed a fearful dream ! 

King Richard III. 

The body of old Carstein was hardly yet settled in 
its grave, and scarcely were the ashes of poof Jake 
rendered cold by the winds on which they had been 
scattered, when, greatly to the scandal of the decorous 


236 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


spinsters of the town, it was noised abroad, that Ulric 
had become a suitor for the hand so latel}^ promised 
to his father, and, what was worse, that he had actu- 
ally prevailed upon its fair possessor, with the full 
consent of her mother — the mercenary creature, as 
those disinterested beings called her — to give it to 
him, as soon as the year of mourning should be at 
an end. This promise of Amelie’s did not, like the 
first, involve any great sacrifice on her part, for, as we 
have seen, her heart was always his, even when com- 
pelled, as she thought, by duty to give her hand to 
another, and, with an assured, but quiet hope of hap- 
piness, she now looked forward to the hour w'hich 
was to unite her fate indissolubly with his ; and this, 
hour was brought nearer than she at first designed, 
by the return of the aged missionary, who had at- 
tended the last moments of the black boy, by whom, 
as being of her own faith, it was the wish of Mad- 
ame Montmartin the rite of matrimony should be per- 
formed. 

All things being ready for the solemnization of the 
marriage, every part of the old house, and not only 
that, but every place that could afford accommoda- 
tions for a night, was crowded with guests both of 
the town and country, for, notwithstanding the seclu- 
sion in which the elder Garstein had lived, the ac- 
quaintance of his son was very extended, and by no 
means confined to the wealthy and well-born, but 
embraced in its circle people of every class and con- 
dition in the little world in which he had moved, each 
of which was now fully represented at the marriage 
feast. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


237 


That marriage feast I Though the memory of “ the 
oldest inhabitant” cannot reach back so far, yet the 
gayety and profusion by which it was marked have 
been carefully chronicled by tradition, and transmitted 
even to our own times, and, making due allowance 
for the amplifications of verbal history, which has 
passed from one female narrator to another, it may 
well be doubted whether any thing of the present 
day has even remotely approached in one at least of 
these particulars. In the large, old-fashioned dining- 
room, the commodious parlors and ample hall, ay, and 
even far out on the lawn, w^ere tables, crowded al- 
most inconveniently together, that literally groaned 
beneath the weight of substantial food by which they 
were covered, while, to wash down the good things 
with which, in obedience to the master of the feast, 
they seemed disposed to gorge themselves, liquors of 
every kind were passed among the guests by buckets 
full. Then, when the eating was over, how gloriously 
the night was spent, till “ almost at odds with morn- 
ing,” in dancing, singing, and the most uproarious 
mirth, beneath the bright light of innumerable bon- 
fires, that blazed in different parts of the grounds. 

Of all this, however, Amelie saw and heard but 
little. Having retired at an early hour from the 
scene of confusion, to a small apartment adjoining 
her own chamber, she passed the evening in company 
with the good priest, her mother, and a few female 
friends, in pleasant conversation, until the proper 
hour for her to withdraw with her maids from the 
bridal party. 


238 


TWO SPIRITS. 


Ulric was obliged to remain with the guests until a 
much later hour, when, taking advantage of a favor- 
able moment, he stole from the company and entered 
the chamber of the bride. But what is this over 
which he stumbles at the threshold ? He stoops. It 
is Amelie, in her night-clothes, to all appearance 
dead I He snatched her up hastily, and bore her in 
his arms to an adjoining room where a light was 
burning, and found her dress spotted with blood ! 
His alarm was terrible ; and he was about to call for 
assistance, when he perceived signs of returning con- 
sciousness. She then opened her eyes, and, looking 
into the face of her husband, murmured with a sigh 
that seemed to shake her whole frame, 

“’Twas but a dream! But 0! it was most horri- 
ble I” and laying her head upon Ulric’s shoulder, wept 
long and freely, but in silence. 

“ It must indeed have been a horrible dream,” he 
said, “ that could produce so terrible an effect. What 
could it have been ?” he asked, as, having placed her 
in a large chair, he began to wipe the blood from her 
naouth, which had been hurt by the fall. 

“ I was lying in bed, awake, as I thought,” she be- 
gan with a shudder, and casting a hurried glance 
around the apartment, “ when suddenly I saw, through 
the darkness, a small bright spot upon the wall oppo- 
site, that twinkled like a star in a clear frosty sky. 
As I looked, it grew every moment larger,, until the 
light that was cast from it filled the entire room. 
Then I saw approach me a figure, clothed in black 
from head to foot, that, when within a few feet of me. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


289 - 


uncovered its face and showed me ” She trem- 

bled, and seemed unable to proceed. 

“ What ?” asked Ulric eagerly. 

“ The features of your father !” 

The face of the listener became livid, and his teeth 
chattered, and his whole frame shook like one in an ague. 

“ Well ?” 

“ Though I recognized the features, they were ter- 
rible, and his eyes, that seemed like living coals, 
glared most horribly upon me, and I thought he was 
about to do me some injury, when another figure 
came between us, and prevented him.” 

“And the other figure?” demanded Ulric, in a 
strangely earnest tone. 

“Was that of the black boy Jake. His clothes 
were white, and glistened like snow in the moon- 
light, and round his head was a circlet that shone like 
burnished gold. His countenance, though melan- 
choly, was pleasant to look upon, and, at the wave 
of his hand, the figure in black receded until it ap- 
peared to lose itself in the wall ; and then the figure 
in white seemed to melt into air, and was gone, even 
while I looked upon it. When I found myself alone, 
I sprang from the bed, with the intention of leaving 
the room — but remember nothing more until I found 
myself supported by you.” 

For some moments Ulric stood by the side of Ame- 
lie, apparently lost in deep and most painful thought. 
At length, rousing himself from his abstraction, he 
said with an attempt at calmness that but ill concealed 
the perturbation of his. feelings. 


238 


TitE TWO SPIRITS. 


Ulric was obliged to remain with the guests until a 
much later hour, when, taking advantage of a favor- 
able moment, he stole from the company and entered 
the chamber of the bride. But what is this over 
which he stumbles at the threshold ? He stoops. It 
is Am^ie, in her night-clothes, to all appearance 
dead I He snatched her up hastily, and bore her in 
his arms to an adjoining room where a light was 
burning, and found her dress spotted with blood ! 
His alarm was terrible ; and he was about to call for 
assistance, when he perceived signs of returning con- 
sciousness. She then opened her eyes, and, looking 
into the face of her husband, murmured with a sigh 
that seemed to shake her whole frame, 

“ ’Twas but a dream I But 0 ! it was most horri- 
ble !” and laying her head upon Ulric’s shoulder, wept 
long and freely, but in silence. 

“ It must indeed have been a horrible dream,” he 
said, “ that could produce so terrible an effect. What 
could it have been ?” he asked, as, having placed her 
in a large chair, he began to wipe the blood from her 
mouth, which had been hurt by the fall. 

“ I was lying in bed, awake, as I thought,” she be- 
gan with a shudder, and casting a hurried glance 
around the apartment, “ when suddenly I saw, through 
the darkness, a small bright spot upon the wall oppo- 
site, that twinkled like a star in a clear frosty sky. 
As I looked, it grew every moment larger,, until the 
light that was cast from it filled the entire room. 
Then I saw approach me a figure, clothed in black 
from head to foot, that, when within a few feet of me. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


289 


uncovered its face and showed me ” She trem- 

bled, and seemed unable to proceed. 

“ What ?” asked Ulric eagerly. 

“ The features of your father !” 

The face of the listener became livid, and his teeth 
chattered, and his whole frame shook like one in an ague. 

“ Well ?” 

“ Though I recognized the features, they were ter- 
rible, and his eyes, that seemed like living coals, 
glared most horribly upon me, and I thought he was 
about to do me some injury, when another figure 
came between us, and prevented him.” 

“And the other figure?” demanded Ulric, in a 
strangely earnest tone. 

“Was that of the black boy Jake. His clothes 
were white, and glistened like snow in the moon- 
light, and round his head was a circlet that shone like 
burnished gold. His countenance, though melan- 
choly, was pleasant to look upon, and, at the wave 
of his hand, the figure in black receded until it ap- 
peared to lose itself in the wall ; and then the figure 
in white seemed to melt into air, and was gone, even 
while I looked upon it. When I found myself alone, 
I sprang from the bed, with the intention of leaving 
the room — but remember nothing more until I found 
myself supported by you.” 

For some moments Ulric stood by the side of Ame- 
lie, apparently lost in deep and most painful thought. 
At length, rousing himself from his abstraction, he 
said with an attempt at calmness that but ill concealed 
the perturbation of his. feelings, 


240 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


This is certainly a strange dream, dearest, but 
perhaps a natural one, when we consider every thing. 
Your position here is so different now from what you 
once thought it would be, that your mind could not 
well help turning to the past, and the events of the 
last few months, having been dwelt upon too seriously 
during your waking hours, gave, as a matter of course, 
a coloring to your dreams.” 

^‘But, Ulric, it was so like reality.” 

“No doubt, my love. My dreams are often so 
vivid, that I am sometimes at a loss to know whether 
a thing has really occurred, or whether I have dreamed 
it only. But the best way to avoid such dreams as 
yours, is neither to speak of them to others nor think 
of them yourself. And here let us dismiss this un- 
pleasant one from our minds.” 

“I will try,” said Amelie, and the subject was 
dropped, and seemed thenceforth to be forgotten by 
them both. 


VII. 

These are words of deeper sorrow, 

Than the wail above the dead, 

Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widowed bed. Btron. 

We have seen that Amelie, even at the time she 
was — in fulfilment of her duty to her mother — about 
to become the wife of the elder Carstein, loved with 


THE TWO SPIRITS; 


241 


all her heart her early schoolfellow and the friend of 
her childhood, and it is not to be supposed that the 
love, which had burned up brightly amid trials and 
difficulties, would be suffered to die out for want of 
aliment. Yet, to a superficial observer, so it would 
have seemed ; for, even before the first year of her 
married life was passed, the warm confiding manner 
of the maiden had wholly disappeared, and in its 
stead was a cold reserve, when in the presence of her 
husband, that could only have arisen from alienated 
affection. Was this so? Far from it. It is not in 
the power of man to sound the depths of the human 
heart, or to read the secrets of that most inscrutable 
of all created things, yet, if a straining of the eye to 
catch a last glimpse of her husband’s departing figure, 
a breathless listening for his returning step, an un- 
wearying watchfulness over all his comforts, and an 
eager anticipation of even his slightest wish, may be 
regarded as so many proofs of love, the affection of 
Amelie was still unchanged. 

But, though her affections might not be changed, 
her manner certainly was. There was hesitation in 
her speech when she spoke to Ulric, and constraint 
in her smile when she replied to him ; and slight as 
this change was — a change that might have escaped 
all other eyes — it could not have been unheeded by 
the watchful eye of her mother, who, fearing it to be 
caused by declining health, becamb seriously alarmed 
for the life of her darling. Nor did this alarm seem 
ill-founded, for every day the beautiful form of 
Am61ie lost something of the roundness of health, 
'11 


242 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


and the delicate red of her cheek faded tint by 
tint, until the rose had fairly given place to the 
lily. 

“Tell me, my child,” said Madame Montmartin, 
looking anxiously through her tears into the face of 
her daughter, “what is the matter? That you are 
ill, I but too well perceive — but what do you com- 
plain of?” 

“Complain of, mother?” returned Amelie, with an 
appearance of alarm. “ I complain of nothing. I am 
quite well ;-^indeed I am.” 

“Amelie, you may blind me to many things, but 
not to your sufferings. You are ill, I know you 
are. This hand,” continued her mother, taking one 
of her daughter’s small thin hands into hers, “is 
burning hot. You must see Doctor Yermilyea. I’ll 
have Ulric send for him at once.” 

“Mother,” cried Am£ie, drawing her hand hastily 
away, “you deceive yourself. I am not ill. A little 
tired, perhaps, from taking too much care of my baby — 
but not ill, and I hope you will not hint to Ulric that 
you think me so.” 

“One of two things is certain,” resumed the old 
lady, after a pause, “ you are ill or unhappy.” 

“ Unhap'pij^ mother ! How could I be unhappy ? 
Am I not possessed of everything that heart can 
wish? Wealth, station, and 

'■'•Kindness^ Amelie?” 

“ Ulric could not be wnkind, mother.” 

“ I hope not.” 

“ O, believe me, he is not,” said the wife earnestly. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


243 


“ But do not press this subject farther. Hark ! Ernest 
is awake. Let us go to him.” 

Was Ulric unkind? The hope expressed bj the 
mother, that he was not, would seem to imply some 
doubt of his kindness. Yet, after the earnest entreaty 
of her daughter, not to press the subject farther, she 
felt it would be indelicate, if not cruel, to follow up 
her inquiry, and, sighing heavily, permitted it to rest. 
But, as no interest can be affected, and no feelings 
injured by it now, not so will I; and I am sorry to 
have to answer the question in the affirmative. Ulric 
was indeed unkind, and his unkind ness dated from 
the very first month of their marriage. 

But this was not manifested in the ordinary wa3^ 
There was no asperity in his tone—no fault-finding in 
his manner — no denial of any of those indulgences to 
which all women have a claim. It was simply a 
shutting himself up in a reserve that could not be 
penetrated; a silent refusal of all confidence to her 
who would not have hidden a thought from him ; 
and poor Amelie was doomed to weep in secret over 
the conviction that she had deceived herself, in be- 
lieving Ulric to have sought her from affection as 
single as that which she had entertained for him. 

This estrangement between husband and wife be- 
came every day more apparent; and with this es- 
trangement, there came a change in the habits of 
Ulric, that would of itself have been sufficient to 
cause unhappiness to the heart of any one who loved 
him. His affairs were left entirely to the management 
of others, while his days were passed either in bed, or 


244 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


moping about in moody silence, and his nights in the 
frenzy of dissipation, among a set of wretched creatures, 
who felt themselves honored by being permitted to 
share the orgies of one who, by fortune and education, 
seemed placed so far above their sphere. But this 
course of life could not last. Ulric’s health and mind 
seemed at length affected by it ; and, upon his mys- 
terious abandonment of home and friends, it was 
thought that, in a fit of madness or remorse, he had 
destroyed himself ; and this opinion was strengthened 
by a note, which came a few days after to poor 
Amelie, giving a few directions for the arrangement 
of his affairs, and bidding to wife and child an eternal 
farewell. 


VIII. 

Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 

Torn from ever^’^ nearer tie, 

Seared in heart, and lone and plighted. 

More than this I scarce can die 1 ByroS. 

When Amelie had, in some degree, recovered from 
the stunning effect of the blow dealt by the hand of 
her husband, she went earnestly to work to execute 
the commands he had laid upon her, and having ex- 
tended the leases of her tenants, on terms highly 
satisfactory to them, and given to an honest citizen 
the management of her other property, she bade adieu 


THE TWO SPIKITS. 


245 


to her adopted country, and sailed away to France 
with her mother and child. The health of Madame 
Montmartin had been failing for some time, and it 
was hoped by Amelie that it might be restored by a 
return to her native clime. But in this she was fated 
to a disappointment ; for, a few months after their 
landing at Marseilles, the good old lady was gathered 
to those who had preceded her to the land of ever- 
lasting silence, and poor Amelie was left alone, 
to struggle with difficulties which every wayfarer 
through the wilderness of this world is doomed to 
encounter. Amid all these difficulties, however, the 
noble woman bore bravely up, for she had that Jo 
struggle for which would give strength even to the 
weakest. Her little boy, every day advancing in 
stature and comeliness, now engrossed all her atten- 
tion; and she labored diligently, by strict religious 
culture, to eradicate from his young mind the seeds 
of evil inherent in his nature ; and she had the happi- 
ness of living to see her efforts crowned with success. 

Having faithfully discharged her duty towards her 
son, and seen him placed in a situation of high and 
holy trust — for he had devoted himself to the service 
of his Maker — she withdrew from the world, and 
united herself to a society of women, whose active 
benevolence has been the theme of general eulogy, 
even among those who are loudest in condemnation 
of their religious belief — the Daughters of St. Vincent 
of Paul — who supply to the poor orphan a mother’s 
place, and hover like ministering angels about the 
couch of the unfriended dying. 


246 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


A devastating, but necessary war had swept over 
the land, by which the property of the Carsteins 
passed into the hands of strangers ; the old family 
mansion, long uninhabited, was become a haunted 
ruin, and their very name seemed blotted from the 
memory of the oldest inhabitant in the place that 
once had known them, when a clerical gentleman, 
who had lately come to reside in the town I have 
been speaking of, was solicited one evening, by a re- 
spectable-looking female, to visit a poor old man, who. 
lay at her house, apparently dying of a terrible epi- 
demic which was at that time ravaging the country. 

The house to which he was taken was rather a 
mean one, and in an obscure street, but had about it 
an appearance of cleanliness and comfort not common 
to those of its class, and the room to which he was 
conducted was at the top of it. Here, on a clean 
straw bed, lay a shrivelled old man, whose hours of 
earthly suffering were drawing rapidly to a close, but 
whose mind seemed not yet dimmed by the shadows 
of death that were gathering fast around him. 

The clergyman knelt by the side of the dying man 
to hear his confession ; but instead of pouring into 
his ear a relation of the sins with which his con- 
science was burthened, he took from under his pillow 
a roll of paper, which he placed in the hands of the 
divine, who opened it and read as follows. 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


247 


IX. 

Many are the scourges of the sinner, but mercy shall encompass 
him that hopeth in the Lord. - Psalm XXXI. 

“Terrible to the sinner is the justice of God! — 
more unsparing than the tempest, more consuming 
than the fire I And did not His mercy interpose be- 
tween the law-breaker and the law, all flesh would 
perish from the earth more certainly than in the days 
of the deluge. And 0, had not that mercy pleaded 
in favor of him who scrawls these lines — whose right 
hand is crimsoned with the blood of a father, whose 
soul is burthen'cd with the crime of a double murder, 
what would now be his condition I I look into the 
gulf that my own accursed deeds have opened before 
me, and my brain reels, the blood freezes in my veins, 
and I almost swoon with ^excess of horror! But 
blessed be He who is mighty to save ! His arms of 
mercy are extended towards me, and he will bear me 
over the gulf in safety ! But ere I speak of his 
mercy, let me go back to that by which his justice 
was provoked. 

“The wrongs my father did me were bitter and 
manifold, and early awoke within my bosom feelings 
of rancorous hatred — the seeds of evil from which 
have been gathered in so plentiful a harvest of crime ! 
But that which seemed to me the greatest, was taking 
from me her to whom — though no vows had been ex- 


248 


THE TWO SPIKITS. 


changed between us — I had bound myself heart and 
soul, and I longed, with an intense longing, to be re- 
venged upon him for this, but without once glancing 
in thought towards murder. At length my plan was 
matured. I had engaged, with some young com- 
panions, to go on a party of pleasure a short distance 
from the town ; and when, overcome by their ex- 
cesses, they should lay them down to sleep, I would 
steal away from them, and return to my father’s 
house, rob him of his hoarded gold, the only thing I 
believed him capable of loving, which I knew he 
kept concealed in his own chamber. 

“With a light boat and a good pair of oars, I soon 
reached my home, and passed unseen, as I thought, to 
the old man’s room. The key of his strong box, 
which was kept in a small closet by the side of the 
chimney, was in the pocket of his breeches, which he 
always placed under his head when he slept ; and in 
searching for them I awoke him. He started up, and 
caught me with a powerful grasp by the arm. Fear- 
ing he would alarm the house, and thus expose my 
evil intent, I clutched him by the throat, to make him 
let go his hold, but he only held me the tighter, and 
relaxed not his grasp until he fell back a corpse I 
The devil that had first tempted me to commit a sim- 
ple robbery, had led me on to murder, and I fancied 
I could hear his exulting laugh, when I now became 
conscious of the terrible deed my hand had com- 
mitted. 

“ I left the house, and returned to my companions, 
who had not missed me ; and, when I learned next 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


249 


day that the murder was attributed to one of the 
slaves, I believed that my secret was entirely in my 
own keeping. In this I was mistaken. I feared, by 
the story of the slave at his trial, that he shared it 
with me ; and, by a conversation I had with him after 
nis condemnation, I was convinced of it. 

“ I had always liked this boy, and the nobleness he 
had shown, in concealing his knowledge of what I 
had done, endeared him to me beyond any being of 
his sex, and I would have saved him at any sacrifice 
— short of life. But both of us could not live ; and 
although I had promised to use every effort in his fa- 
vor, I suffered the law, which had condemned him, to 
take its course ; and thus, to one deadly sin, added 
another as deadly. 

“The maiden I had loved, and whom my father 
had meditated taking from me, was now free to wed 
as she pleased ; and believing her heart always to have 
been mine, I sought her hand in marriage, and ob- 
tained it. She at first scrupled giving it to me, as it 
had been promised to my father by her mother, how- 
ever, rather than herself; but this scruple was easily 
removed, and we were married. And then began the 
trials that, having destroyed the happiness of all con- 
nected with me, and passed like a searing-iron over 
heart and brain, drove me, at length, out into the 
world, a homeless, wretched wanderer. 

“ The thought of my fearful crimes was ever pres- 
ent to me — alone and in company — waking and sleep- 
ing — filling my bosom with unspeakable but unavail- 
ing anguish. But on my wedding night, the fright- 
11 * 


250 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


ful forms that had constantly filled my mind, assum- 
ing a real bodily presence, manifested themselves, 
first to my bride, and then to me. This manifestation 
she looked upon as a dream, or the illusion of a dis- 
ordered fancy, and this belief, although I knew its 
falsity, I encouraged, for, without confessing my crime, 
how could I admit, that it was indeed the spirits of 
my father and the poor slave, who had visited her in 
the bridal chamber? Yet, with all my address, I fear 
she had some suspicion of the truth ; for, though she 
never after alluded to the circumstances, I have fre- 
quently noticed, when I approached her, something 
like a shudder pass through her frame, as if my pres- 
ence filled her with dread. 

“ The spirits of my victims now became my nightly 
companions. But while one was ever terrible and 
menacing, the other wore a look of mildness and en- 
treaty, and while one seemed bent on driving me to 
madness or despair, the other appeared to implore me, 
by repentance, to seek forgiveness of my crimes. The 
former was the most successful. Despair took pos- 
session of my soul, and to drown the ever recurring 
cry of remorse, I plunged madly into every conceiva- 
ble excess. 

“ By reversing the order of nature — turning my day 
into night, and my night into day — I was enabled, for 
a short time, to rid myself of my nocturnal visitants. 
Alas ! it was but for a short time ! The visitations, 
which had at first been made only under cover of the 
night, now became frequent even in the glare of 
noon, and turn where I would, the horrible form of 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


251 


my murdered father was before me, and glared upon 
me with eyes that burned into my very soul. ^ 

“ This state of existence could not be endured ; and, 
believing that no hell could be worse than the one 
I was suffering upon earth, I resolved to rush into 
the presence of my Judge, and know the worst at 
once. 

“For this purpose I left my house, and sought a 
stream that ran within a few rods of my garden wall, 
the spirit of rny father urging me forward, and that of 
the slave vainly endeavoring to stay my steps. I 
reached the bank, and was about to take the leap into 
eternity, when some one caught my arm, and pulled 
me baekward. I turned to see whence this interrup- 
tion came, and beheld the features of an old mission- 
ary, who had attended my second victim to the stake, 
and afterwards performed for me the marriage rite. 

“ His features, usually so benign, were now terrible 
to look upon, and in a voice that filled me with fear 
and trembling, he exclaimed, 

“ ‘ Who art thou, 0 feeble worm ! that bravest the 
vengeance of an Omnipotent God ?’ 

“ The air of dignity and the commanding tone of 
this weak old man completely overpowered me. I 
became as a child in his hands, and, yielding myself 
to the impulse of the moment, knelt on the grass be- 
fore him, and told him all. 

“ Before my confession was concluded, the old man 
was kneeling with me, and he, who a few minutes, be- 
fore was ready to denounce against me the vengeance 
of God, was now, in a voice broken by sobs, pouring 


252 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


into my ear the blessed promises of Him who pur- 
chased with his blood redemption for all mankind, 
not even excepting a wretch so terribly guilty as I. 
These words fell upon my soul like oil upon the 
waters, stilling the tumult within, and as the spirits 
flitted before me, I saw that while one wore a look of 
baffled hate, the other was smiling approvingly upon 
me. 

“ ‘I will at once,’ said I, ‘surrender myself to jus- 
tice, and expiate my crime as the law demands.’ 

“‘And wherefore?’ asked the missionary. ‘Will 
thy death give life to the departed ? Nay, will it not 
rather brand with infamy the innocent brows of thy 
wife and child ? If God requires thee to live, it is thy 
duty to bear the burden of life patiently; and, as one 
deed of kindness to a suffering fellow-creature, is more 
meritorious in His sight than a whole hecatomb of 
victims, thou shalt live to do good. But, as thy wife 
and fortune have been the reward of thy crimes, thou 
shalt not live in the enjoyment of them ; but go 
abroad among strangers, and earn thy bread in the 
sweat of thy brow ; — and thy penance shall be, to la- 
bor diligently for the happiness of others, and may 
God endow thee with strength so to do.’ 

“ I obeyed. The endearments of home, and the in- 
dulgences to which I had thought myself entitled, were 
abandoned, and I became an outcast and a wanderer, 
but endeavoring, amid all my difficulties, to be m 
some way serviceable to my fellow-men. Still the 
spirits of good and evil attended me, one seeking by 
every means to deter me from the practices of charity, 


THE TWO SPIRITS. 


253 


and the other encouraging me to persevere. And, 
with God’s help, I did persevere. 

“ After years of wandering among those to whom 
my name was unknown, I have returned to find my- 
self forgotten in my native place. But what does 
that matter? If God has not forgotten me in His 
mercy, the forgetfulness of my fellow worms is of lit- 
tle importance ; — better far than to be remembered as 
a Murderer.” 


The clergyman knelt again by the side of the dying 
man. Their conversation I cannot repeat ; but it ended 
by the priest of the Most High imparting to the sufferer 
the consolations of religion. Then he prayed long and 
fervently by the bedside of the dying, and continued 
to pray long after the immortal spirit had passed from 
its tabernacle of clay. The clergyman was the son of 
Ulric and Amelie, and his prayer for the departed, 
although he knew it not, was poured forth for the soul 
of His Father. 


“ Mercy on me, grandpapa,” exclaimed Kate, with 
uplifted hands and an affected shudder, “ what a story 
you have been telling us! Keally, I shall hardly 
venture to go to my own room o’ nights after this, for 
fear of seeing the ghosts of that horrid old Carstein 
and poor Jake looking at me out of the wall.” 

“Yet you would have no reason to fear even so 
malicious a ghost as that of old Carstein,” said Max 


254 


THE TWO SPIKITS. 


to her, in an aside^ as the play books say, without 
being overheard by any one but me, “ for, as Burns 
said of ‘ Bonnie Lesley,’ 

* The deil he cou’d na scaith thee, 

Or augh^hat wad belang thee, 

He’d look into thy bonnie face, 

And say — I canna wrang thee* ” 

At this she blushed and looked down, and her con- 
fusion at this pretty compliment, which from another 
would only have made her laugh, confirmed a sus- 
picion I had for some time entertained, but which I 
mean, for the present, to keep to myself, and let my 
daughter go on with the story it was now her turn to 
tell. This she did by reading, from manuscript, the 
following, which, for aught she told us to the con- 
trary, might have been communicated to her, as a 
Writing Medium,” by some one ‘H’other side o’ 
Jordan.” 


A DOMESTIC STORY BY MR^ EGANTON. 


I am a very foolish, fond old man, 

And, to deal fairly, 

I fear I am not in my proper mind. 

King Leab, 


L 

THE doctor’s order. 

‘You must certainly leave the city,” said the doc- 
tor. “You want rest and change of air ; but, above 
all, you want rest.” 

“But, doctor,” I asked, in the querulous tone of an 
invalid, •“ how am I to get either ? I must work or 
starve ; and what change of air can be found between 
this and Mrs. Mainwaring’s ? ’Tis true, I can go once 
a week to the Battery; but what is that?” 

“Nothing. You must go into the country, and, 


256 


THE devil’s chimney. 


for three months, at least, not so much as take a needle 
in your fingers.” 

I laughed. 

“You need not laugh,” said the doctor, “but must 
follow my directions to the very letter.” 

“But how is it to be done?” 

“ I will tell you. I have a friend, or rather an ac- 
quaintance, living at Stony Bottom, about forty miles 
up the river, a countryman of our own, by the by, 
and of your way of thinking, I believe, in matters of 
religion, who has lately had the fortune — good or bad 
— to lose his wife. Don’t turn up your lip. I didn’t 
mean that you should go and take the place of the 
dead Mrs. Muckridge. I met him last week at the 
Bear Market, and he expressed a strong desire that I 
would send him some one whom I could recommend, 
to take charge of a little girl he has, who is in a fair 
way of being spoiled by the people he has about him. 
Now, you are just the kind of person he wants; and, 
as I’m sure the place will suit you, for a few months, 
at any rate, I will write to Muckridge at once, and let 
him know you will take it.” And, before I had time 
to put in one word of remonstrance, the doctor was 
gone. 

For a proper understanding of the preceding con- 
versation, it is necessary I should enter, though briefly, 
into the history of the writer of these pages. 

My father was an Irish farmer, who cultivated, as 
a tenant, a small portion of the land of which his 
fathers had been once possessed; — the only subject on 
which I ever knew him to dwell with any bitterness. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


257 


He was a man of considerable education for that time 
and country, and, having no son to succeed to the 
knowledge he had gathered, took a good deal of pains 
in imparting a portion of it to me, which served to 
while away the long winter evenings, that few of his 
neighbors knew how to employ half so well. Of my 
mother, who died when I was very young, I have no 
distinct recollection, although I sometimes fancy, even 
now, that I see a gentle face looking kindly upon me, 
which must resemble hers. Of course this is but 
fancy. 

We came to America — that is, my father and I — 
when I was about fifteen, bringing with us the kind 
wishes of many friends — but very little money, and, 
when, a few months after, I was left an orphan, I was 
glad to find a home with a poor neighbor, who, like 
ourselves, had come from the ISTorth of Ireland not 
long before, who charitably gave me the shelter of 
her roof, and a full share of the coarse food which 
her labor, as a woman of all work, enabled her to 
procure. But, unwilling to remain long a burthen 
upon one who seemed almost borne to earth by the 
weight of her own cares, I apprenticed myself to a 
very worthy woman — the Mrs. Main waring already 
mentioned — who, in return for a year and a half’s ser- 
vitude, taught me her own trade of dressmaking, by 
which I was able, not only to support myself, but to 
repay, in some measure, the kindness I had received 
at the hands of good old Oonah Gillespie. 

But — not to speak it profanely — though “ the spirit 
was willing, the flesh was weak.” My constitution, 


258 


THE devil’s chimney. 


wliicli Nature had intended to be of the robust kind, 
was greatly, if not radically, injured by too early and 
too close an application to my business, and now, at 
the age of twenty-five, I was supposed, by all who 
took any interest in my welfare, to be far gone in con- 
sumption. Then it was that, for the first time in my 
life, I consented to listen to the advice of a physician, 
who, providentially, was no other than my celebrated 
countryman, the kind-hearted and highly-gifted Dr. 
Morton ; and, in accordance with his advice, was 
obliged to give up all my old habits and old haunts, 
and condemn myself to three months’ vegetation in 
one of the dullest spots on the face of the earth, for 
such, indeed, at that time, was the village of Stony 
Bottom, now flourishing under a far more classic 
name. 

In about a fortnight — people did not communicate 
by lightning then — the Doctor received an answer to 
his missive, and hastened to inform me, that his appli- 
cation to his friend Muckridge had been most favor- 
ably received, and that the situation of governess, 
maid, or nurse, whichever I was pleased to consider 
it, to Miss Jerusha Ann Muckridge, a child of eight 
or nine, was ready for my acceptance. 1 accepted it, 
of course ; for, as the Doctor took care to tell me, I 
must choose between that and death, I preferred liv- 
ing — even in Stony Bottom — to dying in New York, 
although broken in health and spirits, and destitute 
alike of friends and of home. Yet I do wrong to 
say I was destitute alike of friends and of home. Old 
Oonah was still living ; and in her and her true- 


THE devil’s chimney. 259 

hearted daughter Kose — at this time comfortably mar- 
ried — I had ever had friends tried and true, and, as 
long as they had a shelter for themselves, was always 
sure of a home. But I had no natural claim to their 
affection, and, amid all their kindnesses, was often so 
ungrateful as to weep over my want of kindred, and 
sigh for the comforts of my own fireside. 

“ Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like h(yine /” 

The week after my decision was made, Mr. Muck- 
ridge came in person to be my escort to Stony Bot- 
tom ; and well was it for the permanency of my reso- 
lution that my word was passed before I met my 
future employer, or I am sadly afraid I should not 
have adhered to it, for, though there was a certain 
kind of authority in his face, it was not that kind of 
authority which old Kent would have liked to call 
“Master.” It was the attempt at authority without 
the dignity to enforce it ; that assumption of superi- 
ority which one so often sees in those who have be- 
come rich by some fortuitous circumstance, rather 
than by the exercise of any commendable talent, and 
which the humblest among us are so unwilling to ac- 
knowledge. But, properly to understand the charac- 
ter of this man, it is necessary that I should give you 
a few particulars of his history, with which, however, 
I did not become acquainted until long afterward. 


260 


THE devil’s chimney. 


IL 

A LOVER OF LIBERTY. 

Mickey Muckridge was, both by nature and edu- 
cation, an ardent lover of liberty, being the son and 
pupil of a \foman who, in carrying out her ideas of 
“the largest liberty,” had early abandoned the “bed 
and board” — videlicet^ the wisp of straw and kish of 
potatoes — of her liege lord, to become the companion 
of a peripatetic philosopher — in other words, a trav- 
elling tinker — known throughout the length and 
breadth of his native land, by the soubriquet of “ Burn 
the Gully ;” and this love of liberty manifested it- 
self in my friend Mickey at a very early age. 

It had been the wish of Nanny Sheehan, as his 
mother now chose to be called, that her son should 
acquire a sufEcient knowledge of the “ art and mys- 
tery” of soldering pots and pans, to become successor 
to her adopted husband, when it should please the 
Fates to snap the slender thread by which they were 
bound together. But “Burn the Gully” was of ra- 
ther an arbitrary disposition, and fond at times of 
playing the master. This was something to which 
Mickey was by no means disposed to submit ; so giv- 
ing “ leg bail” for his next appearance in the court of 
this self-elected judge — in his particular case — he 
quietly withdrew one night from the family circle, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


261 


and the next that was heard of him was as one of a 
regiment of Foot en route for the Peninsula. 

The discipline of an army is rather favorable than 
otherwise to the love of liberty, notwithstanding the 
abject slavery to which soldiers — those human auto- 
mata — are everywhere reduced ; and this feeling often 
prompted the representative of the Muckridges of 
Ballyslough to retire from the field of glory, and 
leave to other hands the gathering of the laurels that 
— bedewed as they were with blood and tears — were 
destined for his own brows. For this, however, there 
was then no opportunity ; and he continued to per- 
form with the regularity of a machine the duties of 
his station for several years. At the end of this time, 
finding himself placed on the narrow line that divides 
the colonial territories of the British Sovereign in 
America from the only free country under the sun — 
as all newspapers and Fourth of July orators will as- 
sure you — he took advantage of his position, and 
sought a sure refuge from the oppression of kings — ■ 
and drill serjeants — beneath the “Star-spangled Ban- 
ner,” heaven bless it! 

“And long may it wave 

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” 

The unwillingness of soldiers to work is proverbial, 
most of them preferring to sell their shirts — when 
they have any — to submitting to an3^thing like man- 
ual labor. Mickey Muckridge was by no means an 
exception to the rule respecting his brethren. But, 
though unwilling to use his hands, he was a proficient 


262 


THE HEVIl’S chimney. 


at head-work, of which tie gave a proof in a very 
little while after coming into the “ States.” Standing 
one day in the door of a kind of public house — half 
tavern, half grocery— in a village of half a dozen 
dwellings, supporting the jamb with his shoulder, he 
was roused from a reverie of no very pleasing nature 
— for he had but one six-cent “ shinplaster” in his 
pocket, without even the shadow of one in perspec- 
tive — by a rather unusual circumstance. A gaudily- 
attired young woman, but of comely appearance, 
though, as Mickey might have thought, a little too 
much like a Mullingar heifer, being “ beef to the 
heels,” who was mincingly crossing the road, was met 
midway by a hog that had just been guilty of a petit 
larceny, having stolen from a truck peddler a fine 
head of cabbage, with which he was making off, when, 
without saying, “ By your leave,” the creature took 
the fair pedestrian upon his back, and bore her away 
in gallant style, to the infinite delight of a crowd of 
boys, just let loose from school, and the unspeakable 
dismay of the rider, who, to secure herself in her seat, 
had laid tight hold of the animal’s tail. 

It was not to be expected that a soldier and an 
Irishman could see a being of the gentler sex in so 
distressing a situation, without flying to her aid. 
Mickey at once started in pursuit, undaunted by the 
volleys of laughter that greeted him on every side, 
and soon overtook, and finally passed the beast ; but 
in his endeavor to “ head him off,” he made him turn 
so suddenly as to unseat the fair rider as unceremo- 
niously as he had taken her up, and to throw her, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


263 


witli considerable violence, into the midst of a parcel 
of ducks, that were enjoying themselves in a pond by 
the wayside. With as much respect as a knight-errant 
of old would have shown to a princess in distress, 
Mickey lifted the lady out of the mud, and conducted 
her to a wagon, that was in waiting for her in front 
of the public house, whence he had issued to her as- 
sistance, and consigned her to the care of a respect- 
able old man who proved to be her father. 

By this circumstance our friend made the acquaint- 
ance of Job Conklin and his daughter Jerusha, and 
upon entering into the service of the former, as a la- 
borer on his farm, he, to use an Irish phrase, “ turned 
out the burnt side of his shin,” which, in common 
language, means that he put his best foot foremost, 
and made himself so agreeable to the latter, that with 
very little persuasion, she was prevailed upon to unite 
her fate with his in holy wedlock — a step which 
Mickey was induced to take, though at the sacrifice 
of a portion of his darling liberty, by the prospect 
of the great consequence he was likely to acquire as 
successor to worthy old Job. 


III. 

HEAD WORE. 


Mickey Muckeidge did become successor to old 
Job, and at a much earlier period than any one but 


264 


THE devil’s chimney. 


himself could have anticipated, for he became pos- 
sessor of the farm even in the life-time of the former 
owner. 

Conklin was an old man at the time of his daugh- 
ter’s marriage, and did not seem likely to stand long 
between his son-in-law and the succession. But 
Mickey was not one to wait patiently for a “ dead 
man’s shoes,” when he could get a pair of his own, 
so, having recourse to his head work again, he per- 
suaded the old man that he ought not to trouble him- 
self longer with the care of the farm, which should 
be given up to one of fewer years and fresher ener- 
gies, and proposed to relieve him at once of a burthen 
he was no longer able to sustain. To this proposal 
the simple old soul, who believed it to proceed from 
the most disinterested affection on the part of his son- 
in-law, cheerfully acceded, and not only gave up the 
management of the farm to Mickey, but was foolish 
enough to execute a Deed of Grift in his favor, by 
which that worthy, as soon as he could exercise the 
rights of citizenship, was able to claim a mastery of 
the soil. 

Having, by his head work, obtained a wife and farm, 
he now continued it for the increase of his means. 
With very few exceptions, the inhabitants of the dis- 
trict in which he lived, were as poor and worthless a 
race of mortals as can be found in any portion of the 
broad lands of America. Scarcely one degree above 
the savage in civilization, and actually far below him 
in moral worth, the dwellers in the mountainous 
country above Stony Bottom were despised, yet feared, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


265 


by all who were brought in contact with them; — 
despised for their wilful ignorance of the amenities 
of life, and feared for their reckless disregard of the 
rights of others. Yet these were the beings who 
were to be made subservient to the interests of this 
man, who, though Irish b}^ birth, partook largely of 
the cannieness of the Scotch, from whom, as his name 
would imply, he was descended. 

The occupation of these people, besides raising a 
little corn and a few vegetables, was making baskets, 
after the fashion of the degenerate Indians scattered 
among them, and carrying them to the nearest village, 
where they exchanged them for pork and rum, and 
other necessaries of artificial life, but without receiv- 
ing anything like an equivalent for their goods. 
Muckridge saw the advantage to be derived from 
trade of this kind, and determined to secure it for 
himself. For this purpose, having raised some money 
by a mortgage on his farm, he opened a Variety Store, 
such as one sees occasionally at a distance from any 
town, where articles of common use, but of the worst 
quality, are given in barter for other articles that, at 
a trifling expense, can be sent to market and turned 
at once into cash at a very great profit ; and such 
were the baskets which were to be obtained of the 
half-savage and wholly necessitous mountaineers. 

In a very few years Mickey Muckridge rose to be 
a man of importance in his humble sphere — for such 
the possessor of wealth, no matter how obtained, can 
seldom fail to become — and wealth had flowed in 
upon him in go steady a stream, that he was now, 
12 


266 


THE devil’s chimney. 


compared to even the most comfortable of his neigh- 
bors, certainly rich ; and some of the wiseacres of the 
town, wishing to pay court to the man of substance, 
began to talk of him for the Legislature, “for which,” 
as one of his countrymen wrote to his father in Ire- 
land, “ungodly mean men are taken in this country.” 
But, flattering as this suggestion was to his pride, his 
pative prudence would not permit it to-be carried into 
effect. He knew that, although' votes are not to be 
bought, he would be expected to “stand treat” to 
every ragamuffin who possessed the right of suffrage, 
and every ragamuffin does possess that right in York 
State, and he thought justly, that the honor of a seat 
in the Legislature would be dearly purchased by the 
loss of all the liquor in his store. So, on the plea of 
certain engagements, which he was bound in honor to 
fulfil, he very wisely begged to decline their offer. 
His plea was accepted, of course, but his motive was 
perfectly understood, and was thus resented by one 
of his would-be constituents, on occasion of a trifling 
illness with which he was soon after attacked. 

"When news to the sulphurous regions were brought, 

That Mickey, the Miser,' was sick beyond cure, 

“0 come,” cried some imps, as the rumor they caught, 

“ Let us fly up to earth, of the prize to make sure.” 

“Don’t hurry yourselves,’’ coolly answered Old Nick, 

As regaling himself he sat over a bone. 

“Let him grub yet awhile ; — there’s no danger of Mick. 

He will come down himself if you let him alone.” 

But the contempt of his neighbors had no evil effect 
upon the prosperity of this favorite of Fortune, nor 


THE devil’s chimney. 


267 


even the afflictions from which he was no more ex- 
empt than the rest of mankind ; for the death of his 
wife — whom he honorably buried under an apple-tree 
of his own orchard-“-by putting him in possession of 
a few hundreds, which she had scraped together, by 
the sale of her soft soap and apple-butter, and a few 
other articles of domestic manufacture, enabled him 
to take advantage of the markets, and buy up many 
things cheap that he afterwards sold at an enormous 
profit. 


IT. 


THE MUCERIDGE MENAGE. 

1 HAVE always been fond of children, and when I 
first heard of the motherless Jerusha Ann, I thought 
that, however unpleasant my new situation might be 
in other respects, the love of this child, which I was 
quite sure to win, would make it at least endurable ; 
and I amused myself, in my upward passage, in pic- 
turing to my mind the ingenuous and innocent face 
that was to look up to me on my arrival. But, like 
most of my ideal limnings, the picture would not bear 
too close a scrutiny. The face was turned up to me 
on my arrival, it is true, but, for the ingenuousness 
and innocence I had expected, I met a face, though not 
positively ugly, the natural stupidity of which was re- 
lieved only by a look of acquired cunning, and to my 


i 


268 


THE devil’s chimney. 


first words of kindness, her reply was that, if I didn’t 
look out she would slap my face. 

“ Get out of that with you !” exclaimed Muckridge, 
giving the child a smart box on the ear; who there- 
upon set up a loud cry, and ran and hid herself behind 
a strapping country girl, who had stood in the middle 
of the floor, with a dishcloth in her hand, staring at 
me openmouthed from the time I entered. 

“Let the gal alone, do,” said the “help,” turning 
upon her “boss” a countenance not “in sorrow” but 
“in anger;” “you’m always a hurtin’ on her, so you 
be.” 

“Let her behave herself then before folks,” was 
the sharp reply of Muckridge. “The child would be 
\ good enough,” he continued, in an apologetic tone 
and turning to me, “ if it warn’t for the people I’ve 
about me, who do nothing but humor her from morn- 
ing till night. Take her out of this,” again address- 
ing the “help,” “and stop her bawling, or I’ll ram 
my hat down her throat.” 

The child was taken away by the indignant “ help,” 
whose name 1 learned was Keziah, or as she was called 
Kezi, with the accent on the last syllable, who mut- 
tered as she went something that did not seem very 
complimentary to “ city ladies.” 

After a few hours, however, Kezi resigned to me 
the care of the little girl, whom I took all possible 
means to conciliate, and had the pleasure to perceive, 
before bed- time, that my efforts were likely to be suc- 
cessful. But when that time came, all I had done 
seemed to have been thrown away. Jerusha Ann had 


THE devil’s chimney. 


269 


always been allowed by Kezi to sit up as long as she 
pleased, and then lie down for a nap on a lounge in 
the kitchen, from which she was carried to bed. To 
this I at once objected, and insisted upon her going to 
bed precisely at eight o’clock. She rebelled, as a 
matter of course, and appealed to Kezi to aid her in 
opposing my authority; but, as my resolution was 
more than a match for the obstinacy of both, I soon 
obtained a victory, and bore her off in triumph, re- 
gardless of the kickings and stragglings she kept up, 
until I reached the chamber we were to share to- 
gether. 

From my heart I pitied this little creature, whose 
nature, however good it might originally have been, 
had been sadly perverted by the injudicious treatment 
to which she had been exposed ; and, instead of sitting 
down to scold, as I felt most strongly inclined, for I 
was indeed sadly vexed, I stood her at my knee, while 
I assisted her to undress, for she was almost as help- 
less as an infant, and spoke to her calmly and kindly, 
until the tempest of passion was hushed into a toler- 
able calm, that was only now and then broken by a 
sob. 

When properly prepared for the night, she was 
about to throw herself into bed, without uttering any- 
thing like a prayer. 

“My dear,” said I, “have you not forgotten some- 
thing?” 

“ No,” she answered poutingly. 

“Have not you forgotten your prayers?” 

“ No. I don’t say none.” 


270 THE devil’s chimney. 

“ Have you never been taught ?” 

“ Yes, Kezi teached me one.” 

“Then let me hear you say it,” I said, motioning 
her to kneel. 

“Well,” said she, getting into bed, “I’ll say it 
here : 

‘Here I lay me down to sleep, 

All quirled in a heap ; 

If I die before I wake, 

Pray the Lord to lay me straight.’ ” 

I was in no mirthful mood at the moment, but for 
the life of me could not restrain the impulse to laugh- 
ter which this ludicrous prayer provoked, and my 
outburst of merriment had so good an effect upon my 
charge that her good humor returned, and she fell 
asleep with a smile upon her features that rendered 
them almost pretty. 

The family of Muckridge, at this time, consisted of 
the “boss;” his daughter, Jerusha Ann ; Keziah Pot- 
ter, who though only a servant, generally bossed the 
boss ; Barney Sheehan, the half-brother of Muck- 
ridge, and Florence Nagle, a lad of eighteen, who had 
principal charge of the store, though this was fre- 
quently disputed with him by Barney, who had a 
good deal of “Burn the Gully” in him, and loved to 
play the master, particularly when he had one appa- 
rently so gentle as Florence Nagle to deal with. But, 
as Barney and Florence are both likely to make some 
figure in the following history, it is necessary to de- 
vote a few words to the description of them. And 
first of the first. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


271 


Barney Sheehan was the son of Dennis Sheehan, 
commonly called “Burn the Gully,” and Nanny 
Muckridge, who, in compliment to the man she had 
adopted for her husband, assumed the name of Nanny 
Sheehan. From the former he inherited his lankiness 
of person and domineering temper, and from the lat- 
ter a strut, peculiar to persons who feel they have no 
right to the respect the}^ are determined to exact, and 
the disposition to sneer at everybody who, by fortune 
or character, was placed above him. He had little 
education. This was hot to be wondered at, when one 
considers the wandering habits of his parents; but the 
little he had he made the most of, and what he 
wanted in real knowledge, he made up in pretension, 
so that he passed in his little world for a man of vast 
acquirements. lie had come to this country some years 
before, upon the death of his respectable parents, for 
the purpose of pushing his fortune, when the Provi- 
dence that watches over the “ lame and the lazy,” con- 
ducted him to the neighborhood of his half-brother, 
who, rather unwillingly it must be confessed, acknow- 
ledged the relationship, and brought him into his 
family, and, finally, gave him a certain control in the 
management of the farm, in which he succeeded' in 
making enemies of all who were employed under him. 
His age was now about twenty-eight, and as it could 
hardly be expected that “a fool of his age would 
make a wise man,” I found Barney Sheehan, at the 
end of our acquaintance, much the same being that he 
was at the beginning. 

Florence Nagle was in everything unlike Barney. 


272 


THE devil’s chimney. 


He was, as I have said, a lad of eighteen, so gentle as 
to appear to the common observer deficient in manli- 
ness of character, and more diffident than the gener- 
ality of girls at his age. But, beneath that gentle 
exterior, was concealed an ardent and unyielding spirit, 
and his shyness hid, from the common observer only, 
the genius that lit up his thin pale features, and flashed 
from his dark deep-set eyes, when anything was said in 
his presence to startle into wakefulness the sleeping 
energies within him. His education had been closely 
attended to, and he would have graduated at old 
Columbia, much before the usual time, had not the 
death ofdiis parents, which happened about six months 
before, frustrated their plans for his advancement in 
life ; when, thrown upon his own resources, he was 
glad to accept a paltry clerkship in a country store, 
as the only present means afforded him of earning his 
bread. But reverse of fortune, though it must damp- 
en, could not destroy the hopeful spirit of the lad, and 
his studies, though greatly interrupted, were still pur- 
sued, with an eagerness that could not fail of suc- 
ceess. 

The orphan state and gentle disposition of this 
youth interested me in his favor, and, as the difference 
in our ages would prevent any suspicion of my mo- 
tives, I did not hesitate to show the interest I felt up- 
on every necessary occasion, and often jeopardized the 
favorable opinion, which I soon saw was entertained 
for me by Barney, in taking the part of the weak 
against the strong. This, in his isolated condition — 
with no relations near, and cut off from all intercourse 


THE devil’s chimney 


273 


with his early associates — was enough to secure the 
friendship of one of his warm and grateful nature, and 
an intimacy sprang up between us, which neither the 
changes of time nor of circumstance have been able 
to impair. 


V. 

A BUDDING POET. 

Among the many inducements held out to me 
by Muckridge, in favor of accepting the new home 
he offered me, was one that outweighed them all ; 
and this was, that every mother’s son in his family, 
except Kezi^ was of my own way of thinking in reli- 
gion. This, though perhaps an innocent, was, not 
the less, a grievous deception, for Mickey Muckridge 
and his half-brother, though they might have been, 
and no doubt were, baptized in the Churcli of which 
they called themselves members, might as well have 
been born Mahometans, for any effect their profession 
had upon their practice. Jerusha Ann, though now 
about nine years old, would have been puzzled to an- 
swer the first question in the catechism, and had never 
been taught even the Lord’s Prayer, that embodiment 
in words of Christian love, humility and trust, afid I 
could only prevail upon her to learn something like 
it, by the promise of a large doll, when I should go to 
town, for committing to memory a paraphrase, the 
hint for which I took from Kezi’s prayer. 

12 * 


274 THE devil’s chimney. 

Florence Nagle, with much natural piety, like all 
highly imaginative beings, had little that was prac- 
tical, and while he would recite with enthusiasm 
Pope’s U niversal Prayer, sadly neglected, I am afraid, 
the morning and evening sacrifice he had been taught 
to offer up by his mother, whose memory he still so 
fondly cherished ; and the day that, by Christians, 
is set apart for the special service of God, was devoted 
by him to the study of his favorite authors, the hea- 
then' writers of Greece and Kome, with whose best 
passages he was better acquainted than with the Ser- 
mon on the Mount. 

My first Sunday in Stony Bottom was a heavy 
one ; for, as there was then no Catholic place of wor- 
ship within many miles, I was obliged to spend it in 
the solitude of my own room, to avoid the sights 
and sounds that were constantly bringing down the 
thoughts on Heaven to the things of this earth. 
There was the constant tramp of feet in the road, of 
sellers and buyers, to and from the store, for, though 
Muckridge had the grace to close the door and win- 
dows in front, he took good care to keep a door open 
in the rear, for the accommodation of his friends, on 
whom he waited in person, allowing Florence to vvan- 
der off into the woods with his book, and Barney, 
whose conscience would not permit him to work, to 
spend the day in sleep. There was the shrill voice of 
Kezi, singing a Camp Meeting hymn, to the accom- 
paniment of her dasher, as she was churning in the 
kitchen, although she had been over and over again 
assured by a neighbor, that singing always prevented 


THE devil’s chimney. 


275 


the corning of the butter, and to all those sounds were 
added the quacking of ducks, the cackling of geese, 
the gabbling of a turkey- cock, and the kitkittooting 
of hens, among which Jerusha Ann, for the want of 
other amusement, was playing the mischief. Of these 
annoyances, however, although I never became recon- 
ciled to them, I grew more tolerant, and managed to 
read my prayer-book without being seriously inter- 
rupted by them. But my great resource against them, 
was, when the weather would permit, to take refuge 
in the woods and fields, with my Thomas a Kempis, 
or St. Francis de Sales, and, beneath the blue vault of 
the great Temple of Nature, lift my heart in praise or 
supplication to Him who looks more to the motive 
than to the manner of our worship. 

In one of these retreats I encountered Florence, 
who was so intent upon his book, that he was not 
aware of my presence until I called him by name. 

“ Where are you now ?” I asked, laughing, as he 
started and looked up. “In Greece or Rome?” 

“ Neither,” he answered, in his own earnest man- 
ner. “ I have been all the morning in the green isle 
of my fathers ; for, as I suppose you know, though I 
am an American by birth, for which I am grateful to 
Heaven, the hot blood of the Celt, tempered a little, 
perhaps, by the cooler blood of the Saxon, flows in 
my veins.” 

“ No one would doubt it, Florence,” I said, “ who 
had heard that speech.” 

“ It is a speech I would hardly be willing to make 
before any one,” he replied, in a tone of slight reproach^ 


276 


TH,E devil’s chimney. 


“but you, Ellen, for you alone, of all the people I 
meet with here, have seemed to understand me.” 

“ I did not mean to hurt you, Florence, by my silly 
banter, for I understand you too well to wish to trifle 
with you. But what has happened this morning, to 
make you leave your favorite climes for the green isle 
of your fathers, and my own dear, but most unhappy 
country.” 

“ I have been reading this most delightful book,” he 
answered, holding up the “Wild Irish Girl” of Miss 
OweuGon, “ and my heart has burned within me at 
the recollection, which it has awakened, of the long 
and bitter wrongs of poor down-trodden Erin, as I 
have heard them related by my father, who was one 
of those who so bravely, but unsuccessfully, struggled 
for the restoration of her rights, in the disastrous year 
of Ninety-Eight. My poor father !” continued the 
boy, and the unshed tears glistened in his dark eyes, 
“ he loved his country with all the ardor of a patriot, 
and the reverence of a son, and I should blush for my- 
self, if, were it only for his sake, I did not love her 
too.” 

In the dilated form and animated countenance of 
the youth, few would have recognized the shy and 
taciturn clerk of Mickey Muckridge. 

“ I have often wished,” he resumed, after a short 
silence, “ that I were a great and powerful man, able 
to raise and command an army capable of contending 
successfully with the might of England, how gladly 
would I then make one grand effort, for the deliver- 
ance of poor Ireland from the thrall of the stranger. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


277 


Or that Heaven would endow me with eloquence, to 
rouse in her favor the sympathies of the heart of 
Europe ; or give me the wonderful power of tiie poet, 
that I might ‘sing a song at least,’ as Burns says, 
which should make her wrongs known throughout the 
world. You smile, Ellen, and think me, no doubt, a 
very silly boy ; but these are really my wishes.” 

“If I smiled, Florence,” I replied, “it was not in 
derision, but with pleasure, for I am not old enough 
yet to regard with scorn or coldness the enthusiasm 
of the young; and, woman as I am, I can fully sym- 
pathize with you in every wish you have uttered. 
But they are vain wishes.” 

“ True, true, Ellen. I can never be a great general, 
I know ; nor orator, — that my unfortunate sheepish- 
ness will forever prevent ; nor yet a poet, although I 
do now and then commit the ‘ sin of rhyme,’ whenever 
I become strongly excited by any subject.’’ 

“A great general you will never be, I hope. But 
a great orator you can and may be, and, with proper 
efforts, no doubt will. To be a poet, however, de- 
pends not altogether upon yourself. The inspiration, 
to be of the right sort, must come from above, and 
you have but to put yourself, by proper study, in a 
condition to correspond with it. But come, T arn 
something of a judge, and I would like to see a sample 
of your ‘ rhyming ware.’ ” 

This request, though it came from one whose critical 
skill might very well be questioned, was evidently 
highly gratifying to the authoring, who, from a fly- 
leaf of the book in his hand, read, with a blushing 


278 


THE devil’s chimney. 


cheek, and in a fluttered manner, some lines, which he 
had there written iiLpencih* 

While bestowing upon his verses the expected 
praise, I was interrupted by Florence, exclaiming, 

“ What a beautiful child !” 

I looked towards an orchard, that covered several 
acres of the hill side on which we were standing, and 
saw one of the prettiest little creatures I had ever 
beheld; — a girl of five or six summers, that might 
have served as a model to painter or sculptor, for a 
sylph or a fay. Her tiny form had a symmetry not 
often found in children of her age ; her lovely little 
face, rosy with health and bright with the merriment 
of her innocent young heart, as seen amid the flaxen 
curls that clustered around it, was “ beautiful exceed* 
ingly,” and her laugh — the sweet and happy laugh of 
childhood — could not fail to awaken emotions of joy 
in the coldest heart, and filled mine with a pleasure 
not to be expressed. She was attended by a woman 
of perhaps fifty, of rather staid demeanor, and dressed 
with quaker-like precision, in a dark silk, book-muslin 
kerchief, and a cap of the same material, with a closely 
crimped border, with whom she was playing all sorts 
of pranks, much more to the amusement, however, 
than to the annoyance of her companion. 

“She is indeed,” said I, “a beautiful child. Who’s 
is she?” 

“ Colonel Kemsen’s, whose house you may see up 
yonder, through the trees. He is the great man of 
these parts; — compared to the people of Stony Bottom, 
a whale among minnows. She is his only child.” 


THE DEVIL^S CHIMNEY. 


279 


“ He is rich, of course ?” 

“ He is said to be immensely so.” 

“ And yet, in my opinion, his greatest wealth is in 
,this little child. You have seen her before; — what 
do they call her?” 

“ Winona.” 

“Winona, Winona,” I repeated. “’Tis a pretty 
name, but one that I have never heard before.” 

“’Tis an Indian name, I believe, and means the 
First-born. Pretty both, the name and the significa- 
tion, are they not?” 

“ Yery pretty,” I answered, and we returned to the 
house together. 


VI. 

ILL REQUITED LOVE. 

My new home, which fiiad never been particularly 
pleasant to me, was every day becoming less tolerable, 
and, although there was a full month of the time 
named by Dr. Morton for my residence in the country 
unexpired, I determined to leave it, to save myself 
from the love of one and the insolence of another of 
the family — Barney and Kezi — from whom, for the 
last few weeks, I had suffered incessant persecution. 

Yanit}^, it is said, is pardonable in women; and I 
might, therefore, be excused, if I confessed to a weak- 
ness from which few of my sex are exempt. But, in 


280 


THE devil’s chimney. 


honest truth, I never, even in mj girlish days, had the 
vanity to think- myself handsome; and, now, when 
my cheek had lost the color and the fullness of health, 
my glass assured me I had scarce a pretension even to 
prettiness left. But every eye forms its own beauty ; 
and the eyes of Barney had found, or rather created, 
beauties in me of which I had never dreamed, and he 
never suffered an opportunity for telling me so to pass 
unimproved. Admiration is certainly no crime, and 
admiration from those we love, or respect, even when 
we feel ourselves not wholly deserving of it, is pleasant 
enough, to say the least of it ; but when it comes from 
one we neither love nor respect, it is incapable of pro- 
ducing any feeling but that of disgust. This at least 
was the effect of Barney’s unmeaning praises upon 
me, and I turned from them at last with positive 
loathing. 

“ Ellen,” said he one evening, looking in my face 
with the piteous expression of a dying calf, “ why 
won’t you hear me? You know I love you. How 
is it possible, with that sweet face every day before 
me, I could do otherwise? Then why won’t you 
have me? Maybe you think I couldn’t make you a 
living? But there you’re mistaken. Mickey lias 
promised me an interest in the farm whenever I 
choose to marry ; — and I choose to marry now, if you 
will only have me. Now be a kind creature, and say 
‘ Yes’ to me at once.” 

“ It is not my wish,” I answered gravely, “ to say 
anything unpleasant ; but ’tis time we understood 
each other, since it seems we have not yet done so ; 


THE devil’s chimney. 


281 


not, however, through any fault of mine. I ought, 
perhaps, to be grateful for the preference you have 
shown rne ; — but, as I cannot honestly say that I am, 
I will not pretend any such thing, particularly as that 
preference is founded upon certain charms with which 
I know myself not to be endowed. That you may 
make some woman a good husband, I am willing to 
believe. But not me. I do not think I shall ever 
marry. If I should, however, my husband must be 
one who shall possess my entire love and respect, 
and ” 

“I do neither.” 

‘•You are perfectly right.” 

This was not kind, I admit. But what was I to 
do ? The fellow had for weeks annoyed me with the 
same dull tale, and, as gentle means had failed to 
silence him, I had no alternative left but harshness, 
and the effect was for that time just what I desired. 

But Kezi was not so easily silenced. The dislike 
with which she had at first regarded me, as an in- 
truder into the family, and usurper of her rights, 
hardened at last into positive hatred, which no at- 
tempts at conciliation on my part could soften ; and in 
my management of Jerusha Ann, she thwarted me at 
every point. This I would not have cared for, if her 
conduct had not received the tacit approval of her 
employer. How obtained I knew not, but this girl 
possessed a certain influence over Muckridge, which 
she never scrupled to exercise, when her own in- 
terests were to be served, or her natural malevolence 
to be gratified by it ; and that influence was now so 


282 


THE devil’s chimney. 


frequently used to my annoyance, tliat I made up my 
mind to remove myself from it, and accordingly ap- 
prised the Boss of my intention to return to town. 

“ I am sorry to hear that,” said he, trying to look a 
concern which he did not feel. “ I was in hopes we 
should be able to keep you with us altogether. But, 
if you will go, I must try and reconcile myself to the 
disappointment. I hope somebody I needn’t name 
may do as much,” and he looked at me so knowingly, 
that I was sure Barney had let him into the secret of 
his passion, and the indignant blood burned in my 
cheeks at the thought. 

This was said in the store, whither I had followed 
him one morning after breakfast, and found him busy 
among his customers, dealing out rum and molasses, 
soap and tobacco, black tea and rusty pork. I was 
about to make a rather tart reply, when I was pre- 
vented by some one exclaiming, 

“Stand aside, niggers, and gib a white man a 
chance,” and looking towards the door, my eyes fell 
upon the upturned face of a short, bandy-legged old 
negro, whose dark visage shone like a black bottle, 
under the combined influence of good humor and a 
hot sun, although the autumn was pretty far ad- 
vanced. 

“Good morning, mas’er,” he continued, pulling 
down his head by a thin lock of grizzled wool, and 
drawing back his right foot with a sharp scrape on 
the sanded floor. 

“O, good morning, good morning, Great Agarnem- 
Qon,” said Muckridge. “ What is the news with you?” 


THE devil’s chimney. 


283 


“ 0, noting in general, and eberj ting in petiklar,” 
returned the Great Agamemnon, with an uproarious 
laugh. “ I only jist want you to step to de door. 
Dar is a lady dar what wants for to speak to you.” 

“ Certain I}?-, certainly, by all manner of means,” 
said the obsequious Muckridge, stepping with alacrity 
from behind the counter, and jostling with very little 
ceremony all who stood in his way, as he followed the 
old negro out. 

At scarce three paces from the door stood a hand- 
some barouche and pair of coal-black horses, and in 
the barouche were seated a lady, who though passed 
the season of youth, was eminently beautiful, and a 
little girl, in whom I at once recognized the merry 
little maiden I had seen playing in the orchard a little 
more than a week before. 

“Miss Remsen,” exclaimed Mickey, with evident 
delight, bowing very low, and smiling all over his 
face, “I am most happy to see you once more in 
Stony Bottom. In what can I serve you ?” 

“ I am sadly in want of an additional help in my 
family,” answered the lady, “and have come to see 
if you can assist me in my search, for I find it almost 
impossible, in this part of the world, to get any one 
for love or money,” and the lady spoke in a tone of 
great dissatisfaction. 

“Well, I am very happy to say that I think I can 
name a person will suit you exactly. There’s a young 
woman here from the city, who came up to take 
charge of my Jerusha Ann ; but, somehow, the place 
don’t suit her, and she has just given me notice that 


284 


THE devil’s chimney. 


she wishes to leave. She’s a very good girl, is Ellen 
O’Donnell, and very capable, too; though,” he added, 
sinking his voice, “a little too high, maybe, in her 
notions ; but, for all that, I think she’ll suit you very 
well.” 

“ I’ll see her, if you please,” said Mrs. Remsen, 
“though, I must confess, I have no great fancy for 
persons of her class with those high notions.” 

Mickey came bustling back to tell me what I 
already knew, and I accompanied him out to the car- 
riage, where, notwithstanding the lady’s contempt for 
persons of my class with high notions, I was most 
graciously received. The services required by Mrs. 
Remsen of the “ additional help,” were not great, and, 
as I was still unwilling to return to the drudgery of 
dress-making, I readily closed with her terms, and 
agreed to enter upon the duties of my place the next 
day, when Agamemnon was to come to take me and 
my luggage up to the great house. 

While we were talking, Jerusha Ann, attracted 
probably by the novelty of a barouche in front of her 
father’s store, came out of the house, and, getting as 
close to me as possible, looked up at the strangers 
with wonder and admiration. In a few minutes she 
attracted the notice of Winona, who, stooping over the 
side of the carriage, said, 

“ How de do, little girl ? Have you got a doll ?” 

“I ha’n’t got one 3 ^et,” answered Jerusha Ann, 
“but I’m goin’ to have one, when Ellen goes to 
York.” 

“ 0, I’ve got the sweetest doll you ever saw. She 


tTHE devil’s chimney. 


285 


can open and shut her eyes, and almost talk. Her 
name is Julie. You must ask your mamma to bring 
you up to see her.” 

I ha’n’t got no mammy since my mammy died, 
only Kezi.” 

“ Poor little girl ! It must be very hard not to 
have a mamma. I love my Julie very much, but I 
wouldn’t give my mamma for twenty Julies.” 

The earnest manner of the child seemed to touch a 
tender chord in the heart of the mother, who, drawing 
the little darling closer to her, said, 

“ And mamma would not give her Nony for all the 
world.” 

I felt then that service in a family presided over by 
one of Mrs. Remsen’s affectionate nature could not be 
a very great evil. 


VII. 

OLD AFRICA. 

The appointed time brought Agamemnon for me 
and my luggage, neither of which was very heavy, 
and I bade farewell to my late acquaintances with no 
very sorrowful feelings on either side, except Florence 
Nagle, whom I loved for his gentle disposition, and 
pitied right heartily for his isolated state, placed as he 
was among people who would never appreciate, be- 
cause they could not understand him. 


286 


THE devil’s chimney. 


“You must come and see me, Florence,” said I, on 
shaking hands with him. 

“ That will I gladly, Ellen,” he answered warmly, 
“ the first and every opportunity.” 

“And mayn’t I come, too?” asked Barney. I pre- 
tended not to hear him, and walked towards the door, 
accompanied by Kezi’s valedictory of “ Good riddance 
to bad rubbish.” 

“0! Ellen, Ellen,” shouted Jerusha Ann, running 
out after me, “ mayn’t I come up and see that pretty 
little lady’s doll ?” 

I hesitated. I did not wish to have anything more 
to do with these people ; and yet it must seem un- 
gracious to refuse the child so simple a request ; and 
stooping down to kiss her for good-bye, I said, 

“Yes, you can come with Florence.” 

What mighty consequences depend at times upon 
our smallest actions. By this permission I opened 
the door of Col. Eemsen’s hospitable home to one un- 
worthy of the kindness she there received. 

“ Now,” said Agamemnon, when, by the assistance 
of Muckridge, who was fond of showing his gallantry, 
I was fairly seated in the wagon, “when you’m ready, 
Miss, whistle.” This I did, greatly to the delight of 
the old negro, who thereupon set up a tremendous 
“Yah I yah I 3 mh!” and, giving a crack of his whip, 
away we went at a spanking rate, the tongue of 
Agamemnon keeping pace with the speed of his 
horses, now in addressing them, and now in an odd 
verse of a song. 

“ Go it, Beauty ! Dash along. Darling I Dat’s it 1” 
he exclaimed. 


287 


THE devil’s chimney. 

“Lubly maid, o' sooty dye, 

Woolly head an' milky eye, 

If you come an’ lib wid me, 

Happy shall dis nigger be. 

Ho! ho! win’ blow! 

Who see corn grow ?” 

“ Look out dar, Beauty ! De whip’s a talkin’ about 
you.” 

“When I plenty, you shall share 
Terrapin an’ coon an’ bear, 

Hoe-cake an’ possum fat, 

An’ when noting — all o’ dat. 

Ho 1 ho ! win’ blow ! 

Who see corn grow ?” 


“ Hold still, Darling, ’till I jist giv dat fly on your 
ear a little touch o’ my whip. How you like em, 
ha ?” 

“Berry small my hut, indeed, 

But wat bigger can we need? 

If we fin’ it won’t hold two. 

All outside 1 gib to you. 

Ho ! ho ! win’ blow ! 

Who see corn grow?” 

“Now you streak it! You’re tinkin’ ob de oats, but 
I ’spect you’ll be misappinted.” 

“ Freely den will I diwide 
Ebery ting wid my sweet bride ; 

But if I should sleep for two, 

All de work I leab to you. 

Ho! ho! win’ blow! 

Who see corn grow ?” 


“ Hah I here we am in no time,” he added, as we en 


288 


THE devil’s chimney. 


tered the noble avenue that led up to the mansion of 
Colonel Rernsen. 

The change from the family of Mickey Muckridge 
to Colonel Remsen’s, was a delightful one. The 
Colonel and Mrs. R'emsen were too sure of their social 
position to think it compromised by a show of kind- 
ness to their inferiors; and, while they never stooped 
to the gossiping familiarity with their servants, which 
some would-be gentlefolk mistake for graciousness, 
they never assumed airs of loftiness with the humble, 
so common with those who have but recently attained 
their present elevation. Winona, their only child, 
although beloved, and indulged, too, by every one in 
the house, was spoiled by none. Miss Penelope Pir- 
nie, the housekeeper, — Aunt Neppy, as she was called 
by Winona, and, in imitation of her, by every one else, 
— though not without the peculiarities attributed to 
maiden ladies of a certain age, was as kind-hearted a 
creature as ever lived ; and Agamemnon — who, born 
the slave of the Colonel’s grandfather, and refusing 
the offers of freedom which had been repeatedly made 
to him, boasted of his bondage, and looked with pity, 
if not contempt, upon the “ free niggers” of the neigh- 
borhood — was one of the most obliging, as well as 
merriest, beings in existence. 

Besides the persons named, there was an occasional 
resident in this family of whom, while I think of it, I 
must make particular mention. Cortlandt Glenthorne 
was a lad about the age of Florence Nagle, and, like 
him, had received the advantage of as much education 
as could well be bestowed upon one of his age. He, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


289 


too, was an orphan ; but, unlike Florence, was both 
rich and handsome. He was the ward of Colonel 
Kemsen, and all his holidays were passed in this 
family, where his comings were looked forward to by 
old and young with anticipations of unalloyed plea- 
sure. Like most of the young, he early attached him- 
self to me, and we became very good friends at once, 
and every hour he could spare was spent with me and 
Winona in the nursery. But my friendship for him had 
no ill effect upon my preference for Florence, who 
was still the first in my affections, and whose visit of 
a Sunday afternoon I always counted upon as the 
crowning pleasure of the week* 

But some, whose sight is better than mine, have 
assured me, that there are spots in the sun ; and it is 
seldom, indeed, that the sky is wholly without a cloud. 
It is no wonder, then, that, to an eye which could look 
a little below the surface, slight faults were to be 
found even in this seemingly faultless family. Colo- 
nel Eemsen was a gay man, very fond of society, and 
not always particular in the choice of it, and often in- 
dulged his convivial propensities to the injury of his 
health ; and at these times Mrs. Remsen, usually of 
so equable a temper, became moody and irritable, or 
would shut herself up in a cold reserve, that would 
permit of no approach, beyond the strictest line of 
politeness. Aunt Neppy, with all her kind-hearted- 
ness, became at times a little wearisome, from her ex- 
cessive particularity, not suffering even a floor to be 
swept except as she directed ; and Cortlandt Glen- 
thorne, beneath a gay and prepossessing exterior, 
13 


290 


THE devil’s CHIMHEY. 


nursed within his breast a love of wealth and power, 
that, if not timely corrected, might one day make of 
him a miser or a tyrant, or perhaps both. But, as 
these faults were revealed to me only by time, I will 
not anticipate time in their development, for, as hath 
been most wisely said, “ Sufficient unto the day is the 
evil thereof.” 


VIIL 

THE NEW HOME. 

One thing, however, I soon learned ; and that was, 
that good Aunt Neppy was very fond of a little gos- 
sip, and, as I seemed to have become a great favorite 
with her, she was always ready to share this dish 
with me. 

“ Kow, my dear,” said she, entering my room one 
evening, knitting in hand, “I’ve come to spend an 
hour with you. Don’t disturb yourself; — I can get a 
seat. Now let us set down shin and shin, and have a 
good dish o’ chat. Do you know I love, of all things, 
to hear about York. ’Tis a terrible wicked place, 
they say.” 

“It has its due share of evil, I have no doubt; — 
but no more,” I replied. 

“ 0 ! my dear, don’t tell me that. I never look at 
a paper that I don’t see an account of a murder or 
robbery, or ’sault and battery case, at least. I wouldn’t 


THE devil’s CHIMHEY. 


291 


live a month in that ’ere city to be mistress of all Gold 
street. Yet I should like to see it very much.” 

“And have you never seen it?” I asked with 
surprise. 

“Not 1. How could I? You know I couldn’t 
reach it, except by water; and I wouldn’t risk my 
life by going on board of one of them vessels for the 
hull State. I have never crossed a river in all my 
born days. Why, do you know? I have a sister 
livin’ within twenty miles o’ me, and in thirty years 
I have never seen her, because there is a river 
between us, and I don’t think the bridge very 
safe.” 

“Well,” said I, laughing, “in the present scarcity 
of good people, I suppose you are right.” 

“ Ah, my dear, if I had been less afeared o’ the 
water, I might be very differently sitewated now 
from what I arn. I was onct young, as I. suppose 
the oldest have been, and not bad looking, though 
perhaps you mayn’t think so, and a young man from 
Philadelphy, who haf)pened to be in this neighbor- 
hood then, wanted very badly to make me his wife. 
To this I might have consented, if he would but pro- 
mise to settle down here. But no. His parents were 
in Philadelphy, and so was his business, and to Phi- 
ladelphy he insisted upon my goin’ with him. This 
I couldn’t do; for as there was no way of goin’ to it 
without crossin’ water, I positively refused, and he 
left me in a huff- I have never seen him since,” she 
added with a sigh, “ but have been told that he is now 
a wealthy merchant, and the father o’ the finest fa- 


292 


THE devil’s chimney. 


mily in tlie city, which mought ha’ been mine but for 
my fear o’ water.” 

The old lady was silent for a few minutes, and then 
abruptly said, interrogatively, 

“But you have crossed more water than flows be« 
tween this and Philadelphy ?” 

“I have come across the Atlantic; a distance of 
three thousand miles, or so.” 

“You don’t tell me so! Well, I wouldn’t ha’ done 
it for all Europe, and a good slice of Asia into the 
bargain. Madam,” (this was the title generally 
given to Mrs. Remsen,) “ often banters me upon my 
folly, as she calls it, but till she can banter me into 
courage, it’s o’ no use.” 

“ As you have never crossed water, you have not 
been much of a traveller, I suppose?” 

“Well, I can’t say that. Though I’ve not trav- 
elled far, I’ve travelled much, havin’ been a great 
walker all my days. Why, do you know ? I’ve 
walked clean to the Devil’s C'himley and back in 
one day, a distance o’ more than ten miles each way.” 

“ The Devil’s Chimney I Is that the name of a 
town ?” 

“ 0, no. It is a kind o’ nateral curiosity, as a body 
may say. A colunyi fifty feet high, or more, made up 
o’ blue clay and stuns, that rises straight up from the 
bank o’ the river, like one o’ them pyramids we hear 
tell on. Some say ’tis hollow, and that airly in the 
mornin’ you can see smoke cornin’ out of it, like any 
other chimley, from one o’ the fires that the Old Boy 
keeps up down below. How true this is, I won’t take 


THE devil’s chimney. 


293 


■upon me to say ; but that the chimley is there I know, 
for I have seen it. ’Tis a frightful lookin’ thing, 
standin’ up all alone by itself, and people do say, that 
even more frightful things ha’ been seen around it at 
night, pertickelarly since poor old Brom Yan Gieson 
threw himself off the top on’t, and dashed his brains 
out.” 

“ But how could he climb to the top of a column 
like that ?” 

“ Why, you see, though it rises straight up from 
the river, the side towards the land is rather slantin- 
dicular, and one can climb up it without any very 
great trouble. The boys, I’m told, do it often.” 

This was the first time I heard of the “Devil’s 
Chimney,” and I little thought then the interest with 
which I should one day regard it. 

“I should not think,” I remarked, “that Colonel 
Kemsen, with the number of horses he has frequently 
unemployed, would suffer you to walk so far.” 

“ ’Tis no fault o’ the Colonel’s. He would give 
me a carriage to ride in every day in the week. But 
do you think I’d put my life at the marcy of a horse? 
No, my dear I I know too well what horses can do, 
to trust my life to them. The Colonel’s father had a 
beautiful pair o’ horses, dark bays, with a white star 
in their foreheads, and the most magnificent tails ! and 
he loved them — jist as any Dutchman would love 
his horses — better than his wife. They were full o’ 
life, to be sure, but with all their spirit, seemed as 
gentle as lambs. But, the wretches ! the Old Scratch 
was in ’em for all that. One day the old gentleman 


294 


THE devil’s chimney. 


driv over to Bramblebnry, about twenty miles, takin’ 
Master Scbuy, that’s the Colonel now, along with him, 
promisin’ to return airly in the evenin’. But evenin’ 
come, and night come too, without bringin’ them. 
This, however, we didn’t mind much, as the old 
gentleman was apt now and then to stay a little over 
bis time, and the women folks on us were jist goin’ 
to bed, when all at once, I heerd old Spring, the dog 
that always went with his master, go where he would, 
goin’ on like everything at the kitchen door. I went 
down to see what was the matter, but ole Mem was 
there afore me. The dog flew up to us, barkin’ with 
all his might, pullin’ now at my gownd, and then at 
Mem’s trowsers, and then runnin’ down towards the 
gate, where he stopped and looked back, as if he 
wanted us to go with him. I was sure suthin’ had 
happened, and so I told Mem, who went and got a 
lantern, and callin’ up three o’ the men, we set out to 
follow Spring, and the poorcreatur’ seemed to know 
as well as we did what we intended, for he wagged 
his tail, and trotted on before us just like a human 
bein’. By and by we met the horses cornin’ towards 
hum, but without the carriage, which we found about 
two miles further on, smashed all to pieces. Marcy 
me ! when I see this I thought I should faint, but my 
anxiety about Master Schuy got the better o’ my weak- 
ness, and I hurried on with the rest. 0 ! Ellen, if 
I should live to be a hundred, I shall never forget 
that night ! About a mile further on, at the foot of a 
very steep hill, we found the father and son lyin’ with- 
in a few yards o’ one another, to ail appearance dead. 


THE devil’s chimney. 295 

Poor old gentleman! it was more than appearance 
with him, for he was dead enough ; but Master Schuy, 
who had been severely stunned by his fall, soon give 
signs o’ life, and in a little while was able to tell us 
all about it; which was, that the horses got fright- 
ened as they were cornin’ down the hill, and run away. 
Wasn’t it dreadful ? You haven’t been here long 
enough yet,” continued the old lady, lowering her 
voice, and looking cautiously around, “ to notice any- 
thing pertickelar about the Colonel ; but I have 
always thought, and so has Mem, that his brain was 
a little hurt that night. He has been very queer at 
times ever since, and the least excitement in the 
world, no matter whether from sorrow or joy, makes 
him jist like a crazy man. Madam knows this, and 
generally tries to humor him, though, may be, not so 
much as she mought.” 

Here the old lady made a pause of several minutes, 
and plied her needles with great rapidity. She then 
resumed the conversation, if that can be called con- 
versation, when the talk is engrossed by one of the 
parties, but in a tone of some dissatisfaction. 

“ Religion is a very good thing, Ellen, but what’s 
the use o’ quarrellin’ about it? For my own part, I 
don’t think it matters much what church one goes to, 
so that one goes to some church. We have, as I sup- 
pose you know, only one meetin’ house within some 
miles of us, and I have alwa3's gone to that, though 
it has belonged sometimes to one denomination and 
sometimes to another, — Dutch Deformed, Baptists, 
Methodists, and Swedenbuggers. But to this meetin’ 


296 


THE devil’s chimney. 


bouse, and indeed every meetin’ house that I know 
on, Madam has always refused to go, and not only 
that, but even refused to let Nony go, though her fa- 
ther has often wished it. You see, when the Colonel 
married Madam — she was then Claire Dupuy — they 
agreed that their boys should go to church with him, 
and the gals with her. But as they’ve never had any 
boys, and Madam don’t go to church herself, the Co- 
lonel thinks she mought let Winona go now and then 
with him. But Madam keeps him to his bargain, 
and so you see the poor child is left to grow up with- 
out any religion at all.” 

“ What is Madam’s religion ?” I asked. 

The old Jady lowered her voice almost to a whisper, 
and looking in my face with an expression of pitying 
wonder, answered, 

“She’s a Eoman Catholic! Isn’t it dreadful?” 


IX, 

THE HUSKING FROLIC. 

“Golly, Mas’er Cort, shan’t we hab fun to-night?” 
exclaimed old Agamemnon, with a laugh all over his 
shining black face, coming up to the piazza, where 
Cortlandt was romping with Winona, and I stood, 
with some work in my hands, pretending to listen to 
the “ Dreadful Accidents” and “ Shocking Calamities” 




THE devil’s chimney. 


297 


that Aunt Neppy was reading to me from a news- 
paper, which she had intercepted on its way to Colonel 
Remsen. 

“ Why, Mem,” asked the young gentleman ad- 
dressed, “what’s to happen to-night?” 

“Why, don’t you know Mas’er Schuyler” — the 
name always given to the Colonel by this old servant 
— “is a goin’ to gib a Huskin’ Frolic to-night?” 

“Ho hoi win’ blow! 

Who see corn grow?” 

“ Indeed ! Then we shall have fun. You have 
never been at a ‘ Husking Frolic’ I suppose, Ellen ?” 

“ Why how could she ?” asked Aunt Neppy, a little 
impatient at having her listener’s attention drawn 
away from the list of casualties over which she had 
been groaning for the last half hour. “ You know 
they have no such things as Huskin’ Frolics in York 
city.” 

“ Of course not. Aunt Heppy, of course not.” 

“What,” I asked, “is a Husking Frolic?” 

“Don’t know what a Huskin’ Frolic is. Miss Ellen? 
Well, dat is good,” said Mem, and the old negro 
laughed loud and long at this proof of my ignorance, 
and then repeated a stanza of his favorite song : 

“ Weu I meat I gib you bone ; 

Wen I peach I gib you stone ; 

Ob my apple pare an’ core — 

Wat could lubbing heart do more ? 

Ho 1 ho 1 win’ blow 1 
Who see corn grow ?” 


18 * 


298 


THE DEVIL S CHIMNEY. 


“ It is a gathering of young and old for the purpose 
of stripping the husks or covering from the corn,” 
answered Cortlandt, “during which much cider, or 
something stronger, is drunk, and a great deal of bad 
wit circulated, and it generally winds up with a ‘pawn 
play’ or dance, for of course it is held in a barn. You 
must certainly go and see it.” 

“ Do women go?” 

“ Of course they do. What kind of play or dance 
could be got up without the girls?” 

“ Why, no kind, to be sure,” said Aunt Neppy. 
“ But 0, Ellen, just listen to this. ‘ A Terrible Dis- 
aster I’ ” 

“ Stop,” said Cortlandt, pretending to read from a 
paper he took from his pocket, “ and hear this first. 
‘ Shocking Casualty 1 A fire broke out last Satur- 
day night in the carpenter’s shop of Mr. Napoleon 
Brown, of Scrubtown, which, before it could be ar- 
rested, spread to an adjoining sty^ in which were a 
BOW and nine beautiful pigs, belonging to Mr. Horatio 
Nelson Jones, and, dreadful to relate ! every one of 
these poor innocents perished in the flames P ” 

“ Golly !” exclaimed old Mem, with one of his most 
obstreperous bursts of laughter, “dat Mister Jones 
hab plenty roast pig.” 

Aunt Neppy walked into the house with an air of 
offended dignity, and read no more for me that day. 

In the evening I went with Aunt Neppy, Cortlandt 
Glenthorne, and a young woman named Laura Bur- 
dock, to join in the Husking Frolic in the barn, at 
which all the family were present, except Mrs. Remsen, 


THE Devil’s chimney. 


299 


who always kept “ her state,” and Winona, whom I 
left asleep in her mother’s room. This Laura Burdock 
was one who must not be entirely overlooked in tliis 
eventful history; for, though she seemed intended by 
Nature to be nothing more than a supernumerary in 
the drama of life, the part she was subsequently in- 
duced to play has given her an importance to which 
she would not otherwise be entitled. She was the 
child of poor and improvident parents, who, at their 
death, would have left her to utter destitution, but for 
the kindness of Mrs. Kemsen, who gave her a home, 
and almost the treatment of her own child, with suf- 
ficient education, in case of need, to earn a livelihood 
without stooping to the drudgery of menial service. 
She was a pleasant, intelligent, and apparently kind- 
hearted little thing, for, more than twenty, she did 
not look to be fifteen, and I soon became very much 
attached to her, without reflecting that one may in- 
deed “ look lik,e the innocent flower,” and yet “ be 
the serpent under it.” But I am anticipating as 
usual. 

Besides ourselves, and we mustered pretty strong, 
there were fifty or sixty persons from the village and 
surrounding country, who came to share in the labor 
and amusements of the night. The assemblage 
was certainly a motley one. But, although all social 
distinctions seemed for the time forgotten — Colonel 
Eemsen entering into the fun of the moment with as 
much heartiness as old Mem himself — not a word was 
uttered by the most clownish at which even prudery 
need pretend to blush. 


300 


THE devil’s chimney. 


“ I declare, Ellen,” said Aunt ISTeppy, giving me a 
nudge, about half an hour after we entered, “if there 
a’nt a fellow at t’other side the barn that’s been a 
tbrowin’ sheep’s eyes at you ever since we came in. 
Who is it?” 

I followed the direction of her slightly raised finger, 
and sure enough, there was my faithful adorer, Barney 
Sheeban, trying to look the victim of unrequited 
passion, but making himself, as I thought, supremely 
ridiculous ; and not far from him, watching both him 
and me, was my amiable friend Kezi. I felt annoyed, 
and would gladly have returned at once to the house, 
to avoid speaking to him ; but, as I could not do this, 
I made up my mind to bear the affliction of his pre- 
sence with a good grace, and, when he came across to 
speak to me, I not only replied civilly to his warm 
expressions of pleasure at meeting me once again, but 
even introduced him to Aunt Neppy and Laura, to 
the former of whom he rendered himself so agreeable 
that she invited him, at parting, to call at Mont 
Claire, the name that, in compliment to his wife, the 
Colonel had given to his place, and more than once, 
after we got home, declared Mr. Shin — the nearest 
she could come to Sheehan — to be a very nice sort of 
young man. The latter did not appear to be so much 
taken with her new acquaintance, whom she pro- 
nounced both stilted and dogmatical, and was very 
severe upon his gray trowsers and green breastpin. 

In the course of the evening Muckridge joined the 
buskers, and I was surprised at the familiarity of his 
manner towards the Colonel, so markedly his superior 


THE devil’s chimney. 301 

in all that constitutes the man and the gentleman, and 
was really annoyed to find that Colonel Remsen sub- 
mitted to it with so much patience. He either did 
not, or would not see it. Then I could not tell which, 
but I think I can now. 

The husking over, the floor was cleared, and a tem- 
porary table formed the whole length of the capacious 
barn, on which a cold, but most excellent, supper was 
laid, at which all, except the blacks who waited at it, 
sat down to the enjoyment of more good things than 
were at firsf^ promised, for the restraint which at first 
had bridled most tongues, being now removed, the wit 
of the company was allowed full play, and, notwith- 
standing Cortlandt’s remark upon the quality of it, I 
will venture to say, that there was as much of the 
genuine article put in circulation as could be found 
among persons of greater pretensions to cultivation 
and refinement. 

After the table was removed, an old one-eyed negro 
was introduced, who sat down and sawed upon an old 
cracked fiddle, till near two o’clock in the morning, 
to the great delight of a large portion of the company, 
whose dancing, if not elegant, most certainly was 
strong. But to this part of the entertainment I did 
not long remain a witness, nor did I at any time join 
in it, although urged by Muckridge to foot it in a jig 
with him to “The wind that shakes the barley,” or, 
as it has been naturalized in this country, “ The green 
fields of America.” 




802 


THE devil’s chimney. 


X. 

ADVICE GIVEN AND TAKEN. 

One Sunday, about a month after this, Florence 
Nagle came, as usual, to spend the evening with me. 
The pale cheek of the boy had become paler since I 
saw him last, and his melancholy seemed to have 
settled into deeper despondence. I had felt a sister’s 
interest in this unfriended youth, and was now seri- 
ously alarmed for his health. 

“Have you been ill, Florence?” I asked, as soon as 
I found ourselves alone, for Aunt Neppy had come 
in, just before he entered, to tell me of some terrible 
mishap which she had that afternoon heard after 
“ meetin’,” and remained with us much longer than I 
had any wish she should, making particular inquiries 
after Mr. Shin, who had already been twice to visit 
her since the night of the husking, and every time 
making a more favorable impression. 

. “ No, Ellen,” he answered, “ not ill ; — at least not ill 
in body.” 

“But in mind, Florence?” 

“Alas, yes.” 

“ And why is this?” 

“ Can you, who know Muckridge and his brother, 
ask such a question ?” he asked, reproachfully. 

I was silent, for I knew not what to say. 

“ I am sick at heart,” he added, gloomily, “ when 


THE devil’s chimney. 


803 


I think of the hopelessness of my present situation. 
Doomed to toil, day after day, under the humiliating 
exactions of a cold-hearted task-master, for the food 
necessary to the support of a miserable life, while the 
energies, with which heaven has endowed me, are, 
by the feebleness of the body in which they are con- 
fined, hourly withering away, and must soon become 
extinct.” 

“ Why, my dear Florence,” said I, laying my hand 
kindly upon his arm, “should this be? You must 
remember, that for every talent committed to our 
keeping, we are accountable to the Lender, and its 
wilful neglect can hardly be called less criminal than 
the abuse of it, or he that allows his energies to wither 
'than he who misapplies them.” 

“ 0 ! Ellen,” said he, with strong emotion, “ what 
can I do? Young, poor, and in wretched health.” 

“The two first,” I answered cheerfully, “are in 
your favor. YOuth is the season of hope, and poverty 
a stimulus to exertion. Ill health may impede the 
proper working of your energies for a time, but cannot 
destroy them, as history will inform you ; and though 
you may not command armies, or take an active part 
in the politics of the day. Mind can make itself felt 
from the cell of the monk as well as from the bureau 
of a Secretary of State. To will, where the exertion 
is purely mental, is to be.” 

This reasoning, which seems so fine in writing, was 
at that moment thrown away, for the lad, whose elbow 
had been resting upon the table between us, now 
covered his face with his hand, and broke into a pas- 


804 


THE devil’s chimney. 


sionate fit of weeping; and believing it to be a relief 
to his overcharged heart, I allowed him to cry on 
without interruption. But Winona, who had been 
sitting in a corner of the room, trying to teach Julie a 
prayer which I had "taught her, rose from her little 
chair, and, coming up on tiptoe, threw her arm around 
his neck, and laying her beautiful cheek to his, said 
caressingly, 

“Don’t cry, little boy. My papa shall be your 
papa, and Nony will be your sister.” 

There was magic in these few words, as there must 
ever be in the language of kindness, and Florence, 
who had disregarded my weak attempts at reasoning, 
stooped and kissed the cheek that had been pressed to 
his, and his weeping ceased. 

“I will go to New York,” said Florence, when 
Winona had returned to her doll. 

“ For what purpose ?” I asked. 

“ To push my fortune.” 

“ In what way?” 

“ I have some talent for writing. Every talent, as 
you have just said, must be put to its proper use, and 
mine, instead of being wasted upon idle verses, might, 
by connecting myself with one of the leading journals, 
be made not only serviceable to me, but of benefit to 
others.” 

“You are too young, Florence, for that at present, 
even if you should succeed in connecting yourself 
with one of the journals, which I very much doubt.- 
I am not, of course, acquainted with literary matters, 
and therefore cannot say how far your talents, which 


THE devil’s chimney. 805 

I think highly of, could be made available in a news- 
paper. But I am strongly opposed to forcing the 
mind into unhealthy action, which would be the case 
if, with your total want of all practical knowledge of 
the world, and the crudeness of much that you have 
acquired from books, you were obliged to furnish a 
certain amount of reading matter daily, at the com- 
mand of a task-master more exacting than Muck- 
ridge — I mean the ever-devouring but never satisfied 
Public. Besides, labor of this kind is but poorly 
rewarded, except where the laborer is able to set’ his 
own price upon his work, which one who has not yet 
made a name can never do. Now, instead of the 
course you were about to choose, let me mark out one 
for you.” 

“I will, with pleasure,” he answered eagerly. 

“Then this it is. You shall make choice of some 
business, trade, or profession, by which you can earn 
a present living. It matters not how humble it may 
appear in the eyes of the world, or your own, if it be 
not in itself disgraceful, which nothing that is honest 
can well be, in this country at least. Perhaps, to one 
of your turn of mind, a clerkship in a respectable 
lawyer’s office would be the best thing you could try 
for. Your salary would of course be small ; but you 
must keep your wants within your means, and be a 
strict economist of time, as far as you can be so without 
injury to your health. The necessary care being taken 
of the body, you must then prepare to provide pro- 
perly for the mind. You must continue your habits 
of reading and writing ; but choose your books less 


306 


THE devil’s chimney. 


for the amusement they may afford than for the in- 
formation they can impart, and, as the majority of 
readers understand prose better than poetry, exercise 
yourself as much in that kind of writing as you can. 
In ten or twelve years, if you still wish to pursue 
a literary career, you will be enabled to take a fair 
start.’' 

“ Twelve years !” exclaimed the boy, with a look 
of consternation. 

“ Twelve years, Florence ; and you will find them 
few enough.” 

The next week he left for New York; where, 
through the kindness of Colonel Eemsen, who warmly 
recommended him to a friend, he soon after obtained 
just such a situation as I had pointed out to him, and 
entered upon his Twelve Years of probation ; and I 
saw him not again until time and endurance had 
written “ Man” upon his brow. 

But those twelve years — a drop in the great ocean 
of time — what changes had they not wrought ! For 
good much, but for evil more. Nothing was as it 
had been, except perhaps Aunt Neppy and old Mem, 
neither of whom seemed to grow either less young or 
less active than I had known them at first. But 
Winona, now about eighteen, had shot up into a 
beautiful girl, on the very verge of womanhood; her 
mother was in the rich autumn of her beauty, but it 
was an autumn that seemed to foretell an early 
winter ; while her father, whose fine- athletic frame 
had promised a long struggle with the Great Wrestler, 
was sinking fast into the feebleness of age, and giving 


THE devil’s chimney. 


807 


every day some new proof of the disordered mind, of 
which Aunt Neppy had early given me a hint. 
Cortlandt Glenthorne, still almost as much one of the 
family as when he was the ward of Colonel Remsen, 
and likely to become even more so, as the husband 
of Winona, had, according to the promise of his 
youth, grown up one of the finest men I have ever 
seen, and, with great wealth and considerable talent, 
possessed an influence in his county that was shared 
by none. No, not even the mighty Muckridge, who 
had wrung from the hard hands of his customers 
wealth even greater than Grlenthorne’s, and whose 
notions of his own importance had increased with 
every dollar he laid by — an importance that was ac- 
knowledged by all around him, except Kezi, who still 
continued “ to boss the Boss.” 

But in none of all I have named had those twelve 
years wrought greater, or rather more striking changes 
than in Barney Sheehan and his niece. Miss Jerusha 
Ann Muckridge. Barney was now the successor to 
Muckridge in the store, and consequently in the high 
road to wealth and distinction. This he felt, and de- 
termined that others should feel it too, poor humble I, 
of course, the very first, for having dared to refuse my 
hand to one whom I had confessed I could neither 
love nor respect. My blunt avowal had offended 
him deeply, and, though long dissembled, I was made 
to feel his resentment at last, by every means to which 
a little mind could stoop; passing me now with a 
supercilious nod, then overlooking my presence in a 
room with others, or, in company with strangers, re- 


808 


THE devil’s chimney. 


minding me of something that happened while I was 
living with his brother, — all of which I bore with an 
unruffled spirit, for I despised the creature too much 
to be angry with him. Not so was it with Aunt 
Neppy. When he first came to the Colonel’s, as my 
acquaintance, if not suitor, the good lady had taken a 
prodigious fancy to one who seemed so worthy of any 
girl s acceptance. But, long as his gray trowsers were, 
they could not altogether conceal the cloven foot, 
which, with the keen eye of a woman, Aunt Neppy 
discovered the moment it peeped out. She was too 
honest not to acknowledge the discovery she had 
made, and now as often rated me for the meanness of 
spirit I showed, in bearing so tamely the indignities 
he was constantly heaping upon me, and finally de- 
clared, that, if I did not put a stop to his visits, she 
would. But Barney, when he once got a foothold, was 
no^ one easy to dislodge ; and finding how fast he was 
losing ground in Aunt Neppy’s favor, sought to re- 
tain his place in the house by paying court to Laura 
Burdock, who, from a motive not thought of then, 
but since clearly understood, encouraged his atten- 
tions, and thus secured to him the privilege of visitino- 
at the Colonel’s. ^ 

In twelve years Jerusha Ann, from a plain, dull, 
uninteresting child, had become a woman — a gay, 
dashing woman— who, though scarcely twenty-one’ 
began to think her claims to consideration had been 
sadly disregarded by the sterner sex, not one of whom 
had yet proposed to her a settlement in life. And, 
as must be conceded, those claims were not few. It 


809 


TilE devil’s chimney. 

is true, she had neither high birth, great beauty, nor 
fine talent. But she had what is higher than birth, 
greater than beauty, finer than talent. She had 
wealth. Besides this, she was highly accomplished; 
having spent five years at a fashionable boarding 
school, in learning everything in the world — but 
what was useful. And yet she had not received an 
offer; while it was currently reported that her friend 
— her friend ! — Winona Eemsen, younger than she by 
three years, with little more wealth, and who had 
been taught in a humdrum sort of way at home, was 
actually going to be married I The thing was hardly 
to be borne. 

But what change, it may be asked, had those 
twelve years wrought in the author of these pages ? 
To myself, very little that Was perceptible. My figure 
was less girlish, but my face something fuller, and 
a little more florid, than when I left the city so 
long before, for a temporary sojourn of three months 
in the country. My hair, which was still abundant, 
might have had here and there a silver thread mixed 
with the black, and I occasionally found, at night, 
some difiiculty in threading a very fine, needle. But 
I ate well, slept well, and was generally in good 
spirits ; so that, whatever the change, I had no great 
cause of complaint against it. 


SIO 


THE devil’s chimney. 


XL 

A TEESAGE OF EVIL. 

“You are dull to night, Aunt Neppj,” said I, one 
evening, after the good lady had set for half an hour 
in my room, without regaling me with the crimes or 
casualties of the day, or correcting me for the awk- 
ward manner in which I held my needles while knit- 
ting. 

“ Am I ?” she said, looking up, but not with her 
usual pleasant smile. “ Well, may be I be,” she 
added with a sigh. “ I don’t think I’m quite as sharp 
as I used to be. Between ourselves, Nelly, things 
a’nt a goin’ right in this family jist now. We see en- 
tirely too much o’ them Muckridges for our comfort. 
Why, do you know ? that bloated old Money Bags, 
Muckridge, has been with the Colonel all mornin’, 
and, somehow, things always go wrong arter one of 
his visitations ; and that flirt of a thing, Bushy Ann, 
is invited to come and spend a week with Nony. 
Arter tjiat, I shouldn’t be surprised any day to see 
that turkey gobbler, Barney Shin, strut into the par- 
lor, and take a seat in the Colonel’s own easy-chair. 
Ah, my good gal, times have changed with us indeed, 
when Mickey Muckridge’s da’hter is invited to spend 
a week with Winona Bemsen !” 


THE devil’s chimney. Sll 

“ How do you think,” I asked, “ will this intimacy 
suit Cortland?” 

“ 0, I don’t know,” she answered, with a greater 
show of ill-hurnor than I had ever before witnessed. 
“ It seems to me that Cortlandt is changing with 
everything else. When he first came here a little 
boy, and little boys a’nt apt to be pertickelar in sich 
things, he looked upon the Muckridges as creaturs 
entirely beneath his notice, and I often had to scold 
him and Laura Burdock for makin’ fun of people, 
that I then thought to be a very good sort of people 
indeed. But now he’s as often at Stunny Bottom as 
he is here, and I don’t see but he’s as intimate with 
old Money Bags as he is with his gaarc?ee?i. I don’t 
understand it,” she answered, with a puzzled look. 

There were more than Aunt Neppy who did not 
understand it, and among these were Mrs. Kemsen 
and her daughter, who, while, in compliance with the 
wishes of the Colonel, they treated the Muckridges 
with marked politeness, and admitted Jerusha Ann 
to a sort of intimacy, always, it seemed to me, acted 
as if they did not know why they did so. 

And why was it so? Why did Mrs. Kemsen, who, 
like most Europeans, entertained exaggerated notions 
of what was due to high birth, bend her lofty nature 
to almost an equality with one like Muckridge, who 
had neither mind nor manners to atone for his ori- 
ginal meanness of extraction? And why did Wino- 
na, highly gifted as she was beautiful, stoop to even 
the semblance of an intimacy with one so inferior to 
her, in every respect, as this Jerusha Ann Muckridge ? 


312 


THE devil’s chimney. 


Perhaps from a wish to gratify the husband and fa- 
ther, who seemed lately to court the friendship of 
these people, or perhaps in obedience to his com- 
mands. At present I cannot say which. 


XIL 

RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES. 

Colonel Kemsen was, to all seeming, an excellent 
man ; kind to every creature around him, from the 
beautiful woman who bore his name, to the meanest 
animal that was fed by his bounty. But evil in the 
heart of man, like fire in wood, cannot long be hidden, 
and must, if not timel}?’ quenched, produce general 
devastation. With much that was good, and even 
great, in his character, there was also no small por- 
tion of alloy. Correct in purpose, he was wanting in 
firmness, and liberal in sentiment, he was narrow and 
strong in his prejudices. Through th^ first, he was 
often led to do many things which his judgment must 
condemn ; and under the influence of the latter, was 
too apt to act counter to his better feelings. Now 
unjust towards others, but more frequently unjust 
towards himself, the evil of his nature — thus com- 
pounded of weakness in right and strength in wrong 
— produced, in time, its natural work of ruin. 

Whether the cause or the effect of the mental in- 


THE devil’s chimney. 


813 


firmitj now so apparent, at least to me, I am not 
able to say, but a great and most lamentable change 
had lately taken place in the habits of the Colonel. 
He had always been what is called a gay man, and 
one whose society was generally courted, and would, 
though rarely, sometimes overstep the strict line of 
sobriety, a thing so common among gentlemen then, 
that it was thought hardly worth a remark. But 
now, his overstepping that line was a circumstance 
of almost weekly occurrence, though long hidden 
from every one in the house except Mrs. Kemsen^ 
Aunt Neppy, old Mem, and Laura Burdock. For 
my part, I did not even suspect such a thing, until 
it was known to almost every creature in the neigh- 
borhood. 

On looking back to this time, I often wonder at 
my blindness, in not making the discovery sooner, 
particularly as Aunt Heppy, whenever she noticed 
any unusual gayety on the part of the Colonel, would 
say to me, with an ominous shake of the head, 

“ There’ll be trouble soon. Mem had better keep 
a sharp look-out arter his master to-day. When 
there’s so much wind, we must expect a little rain.” 

After this he would be missing for a day or two, 
and sometimes more, when he would return quietly 
under cover of the night, accompanied by old Mem, 
and retire at once to his own chamber, from which he 
would not emerge for several days ; and when he did, 
how wretched and wo-begone he would look ! and 
so sunk in misery, that the beggar by the wayside 
might well be envied by the rich and powerful Colo- 
14 


814 


THE devil’s chimney. 


nel Eemsen ! I have since been told that at such 
times it was necessary to watch him narrowly, to pre- 
vent his laying violent hands upon himself. During 
these paroxysms, Mrs. Remsen always confined 
herself to her owh room, and would not admit even 
the visits of her daughter. But old Mem — with a 
fidelity seldom found, save in dogs — followed his mas- 
ter whithersoever he went, and never suffered him, 
day or night, to be a moment alone, until the cloud 
was lifted that had darkened his soul. 

Alas, what is the strength of man I I have seen 
this Colonel Remsen sit and bewail his weakness with 
the passion of a child, and yet, almost before the 
tears were well dried upon his cheeks, he would yield 
to it again. 

But the evil arising from the inherent weakness of 
his nature, was little less mischievous in its effects 
than that which sprang from his prejudices — the 
growth of education. 

Colonel Remsen, without any practical knowledge 
of religion of any kind, and entertaining rather vague, 
if not contradictory notions on the subject, had 
imbibed, with his first draught of life, strong dislike 
of a large portion of the Christian family, a dislike 
which time and education had only served to harden 
into positive hatred. This was his feeling when he 
first met Claire Dupuy, then in the radiant morning 
of her wonderful beauty. 

The father of Claire, a French gentleman , of high 
character, but withal a prudent man of the world, 
seeing the effect of his daughter’s charms upon the 


THE devil’s chimney. 


315 


heart of the young American, allowed things to take 
their natural course, until the passion of the youth had 
brought him to make a tender of hand and fortune to 
his fair enslaver, before he recollected that Claire was 
of the obnoxious faith. A few months before, he 
would have consMered this an insuperable barpier to 
their union. But now, so much was he in love, he 
entirely overlooked or overleaped it, and readily 
agreed to the condition, by which he could alone ob* 
tain her father’s consent to a marriage with his daugh- 
ter, — that not only should Claire be allowed the free 
exercise of her own religion, but have the entire con- 
trol of the religious education of their daughters. 
The compromise was agreed to ; the sacrifice was 
made, although no prejudice was abandoned, and 
Claire Dupuy became the wife of Schuyler Remsen. 

Their marriage had every outward appearance of 
happiness. They were young and wealthy, with ta- 
lents to adorn society, and to render home happy. 
But in the golden chain by which they were united 
there was one imperfect link. They could not pray 
together. This was not at first discovered, for the reli- 
gion of Claire, like that of her husband, being more 
of the head than of the heart, this want of perfect 
union was not felt by them. But when trials came, 
as trials must come to all, and the blessed interchange 
of thoughts and feelings, which gives strength to weak- 
ness, and smooths whatever is rugged in the path of 
married live, was forever interrupted by the bickerings 
of Religious Strife, both bewailed the folly of which 
they had been guilty, in bringing this unholy spirit 
to their hearth. 


816 


THE devil’s chimney. 


Colonel Remsen had paid so much regard to the 
promise he had given his wife before their marriage 
—that of not interfering with her religious belief — 
that he never even invited her to accompany him to 
the only church in the neighborhood, of which, though 
not a member, he was a pretty regular attendant ; and 
as there was no church of her faith nearer than New 
York, and as she seldom went to this in her frequent 
visits to the city, Mrs. Remsen had little difficulty in 
showing the same forbearance towards him. But 
about a year before I became a resident of Mont 
Claire, upon a clergyman, who had been travelling 
through the country, to seek out and bring back the 
wanderers from the fold, coming to perform the offices 
of, his ministry in Stony Bottom, the Colonel inti- 
mated to his wife his wish to accompany her to the 
house of Muckridge, the parlor of which, for want 
of a better, had been turned into a temporary chapel 
for the occasion. 

The Catholics of that day, and indeed of a much 
later day, in such places as Stony Bottom, were most- 
ly of that class, who are called by the natives, the 
Low Irish — a people who have escaped from poverty 
and degradation at home, to meet with labor and 
contempt in the land of the stranger, but who bear 
with them, wherever they go, the same love for the 
Old Faith which nerved the hearts of their fathers 
to suffer wrongs and spoliations, and even death for 
the maintenance of it. The report that Mass was to 
be said in Stony Bottom drew a crowd of these peo- 
ple together, and, at the time the Remsens arrived, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


817 


the house was so full that it seemed almost impossible 
for them to obtain standing room. But, with charac- 
teristic politeness, and their usual good humor, these 
uncouth looking beii^s, by pressing closer together, 
opened a passage for the Colonel and his lady to the 
seats that had been reserved for them in front of the 
altar. 

Father Gormley, the clergyman on this occasion, 
was no doubt a good man, and one very deservedly 
beloved by those who knew him. But he was no 
orator, and had nothing of the gentleman in his 
manner, and his hastily composed sermon was so 
bunglingly delivered, that Colonel Bemsen wished it 
finished before it was half done. Then, though 
married to a woman who called herself a Catholic, 
and the father of a child that, by his own voluntary 
promise, was to be one, he had never before been 
present at the celebration of a Mass, and without 
endeavoring in the least to make himself acquainted 
with their meaning, he looked upon the crossings, 
kneelings, and other ceremonies with which it was 
attended, not only as useless, but perfectly ridiculous, 
and could hardly wait for the reading of the last 
Gospel before he rose and quitted the room. 

“ My dear Claire,” said he, as soon as they were in 
the carriage, “ how can one of your refinement and 
good sense join in worship with the kind of people 
we have left, and look with reverence upon the mum- 
mery we have just witnessed?” 

He spoke in a tone of irritation, and Mrs. Bemsen, 
who had been annoyed by the crowd, and disappoint- 


818 


THE devil’s chimney. 


ed in the clergyman, answered in the same, not in 
defence of her own form of worship, but in retorting 
upon his. The imperfect link in their chain of happi- 
ness now slightly gave way, and it went on from that 
day yielding little by little until it was finally sun- 
dered; a consummation hastened, if not produced, 
by the interference of one of those ranting, canting 
pests of society, who endeavor to show their love to 
God by filling the hearts of his creatures with hatred 
against one another. 


XIIL 

THE SPIRIT OF DISCORD. 

About this time a young man, one McClavers, be- 
came the teacher of the small school that was sup- 
ported, during the winter months, by the few farmers 
around Stony Bottom, who chose to give something 
like an education to their children. He had come 
among them unheralded and unrecommended, and 
without a line of introduction to any one in the neigh- 
borhood. But these he stood not in need of. The 
face of Hector McClavers was, in his opinion, suffi- 
cient recommendation of the owner, and his tongue 
could not fail to introduce him to any society ; — the 
one had a show of honesty which was not always 
confirmed by the actions of the man, and the other 


THE devil’s chimney. 819 

was endued with a plausibility that indeed might 
“ wheedle with the devil.” In person he was tall and 
thin, but by no means ill-formed, and his manners, 
though without any high polish, had the smoothness 
of one who had mixed a good deal with the world. 
Exteriorly, if there was not much to admire in the 
man, there was as little to condemn, and the ranco- 
rous spirit within him — of intolerance of every one 
who differed from him in matters of faith — did not 
often manifest itself, until it was sure of succeeding 
in its work of uncharitableness. 

To what sect ha had originally belonged, I do not 
know ; but, following out the precept of the Apostle, 
to “try all things,” he had already called himself by 
almost every name by which the divisions in the 
Christian family are known, and, in every change, 
while claiming infallibility for himself, was sweeping 
in his condemnations of all who differed from him. 
But as I do not wish to confound the people to whom 
he now belonged with him, I need not mention here 
the name he bore at this time. 

It was then, and probably is, the custom in places 
like Stony Bottom to invite the schoolmaster, whose 
calling is received as a patent of gentility, to the 
houses of all who have any claim to respectability, 
and this act of courtesy was extended to McClavers 
by Colonel Eemsen, at whose table he soon became a 
frequent and welcome guest. 

If some, by the exercise of hospitality, have “ en- 
tertained angels unawares,” others, by the show of 
civility which is required by the usages of society, 


820 


THE devil’s chimney. 


have not unfrequentlj received spirits of a very dif- 
ferent character. Such, at least, was the case in the 
present instance. The unhappy cause of difference 
between Colonel Kemsen and his wife, though not 
often alluded to in conversation, was seldom absent 
from their thoughts, and, as if prompted by the spirit 
of discord, this was the subject on which the new 
schoolmaster was always most eloquent ; — at one 
time arguing gravely against the errors of Komanism, 
and at another levelling at them the shafts of his Avit, 
yet being, or affecting to be, ignorant of the insult he 
was thereby offering to the mistress of the house, 
by assailing her religion. 

Into these discussions Mrs. Eemsen never entered. 
Though firmly convinced of the truth of the faith in 
which she had been educated, she was but ill pre- 
pared, by reading or proper instruction, to defend it 
against the attacks of McClavers, who could not 
breathe but in an atmosphere of controversy, and, 
besides, she shrank from argument with the delicacy 
of a true woman. This silence on the part of his 
wife was sadly misinterpreted by the Colonel, who be- 
lieved, because she said nothing, there was nothing to 
be said in favor of the religion in which he had pledged 
himself to bring up his only child, and feeling that 
he had no right to sacrifice the happiness of an im- 
mortal being to a mere punctilio, he now tried, by 
arguments and entreaties, and finally by the authority 
of a husband, to prevail upon Mrs. Kemsen to permit 
him to have his daughter reared in the religion of his 
ancestors. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


821 


But Mrs. Bernsen was inflexible. Winona should 
be a Catholic, or nothing ; and nothing she was likely 
to be, if I had not — little as I was fitted for the task 
— taken upon myself the duties of instructress, and 
given to her young mind the bias that it ever after 
retained. 


J 

XIY. 

ANTICIPATED EVIL. 

“Well, she’s here at last, bag and baggage,” ex- 
claimed Aunt Neppy one morning, as I met her on 
the stairs. 

“ Who’s here ?” I asked. 

“ Why that Bushy Ann Muckridge.” 

“Well,” said I. 

“ Well^ Nelly ? No, my good gal, it an’t well with 
a family like this, when the likes of her is made a 
companion on.” 

“ You must forget, Aunt Neppy, what Jerusha Ann 
has been, and remember what she is.” 

“ And what is she, I’d like to know ?” 

“ She is rich and well educated.” 

“ Bich she may be, but what made her rich ? The 
hard arnins of the miserable mountaineers, that her 
father almost robbed them of. I hope you don’t call 
it bein’ well edicated, not to know how to do nothin’ 
but gabble French, and twingle twangle a little on 
the peaner?” 

14 * 


822 


THE devil’s chimney. 


“ Whatever I may think of it,” I answered, “ that 
is what half the world would call being well 
educated.” 

“ Then there’s more fools in the world than I 
thought,” said the old lady sharply, and passed on. 

Whatever might have been Aunt ISTeppy’s opinion 
or mine on the subject of education, it was certain 
that Jerusha Ann looked upon herself as a most ac- 
complished young lady, and she omitted no opportu- 
nity of impressing this belief upon the minds of 
others; entering eagerly on, and discussing freely, 
every subject that was started in her presence, in a 
language peculiarly her own, compounded of indiffer- 
ent English and worse French, with here and there a 
slight touch of Irish, borrowed from her father and un- 
cle, or dashing away at the piano, with a fury almost 
frightening, with the evident intention of extorting 
the admiration of all around her, and throwing poor 
Winona completely into the shade. But she failed 
in both her objects. To admire anything so superfi- 
cial would be impossible for any one but a fool, and 
the subdued manner and true feminine grace of Wi- 
nona Eemsen never appeared to such advantage as 
when contrasted with the dash and fussiness of Jeru- 
sha Ann Muckridge. Yet she commanded attention, 
the easy substitute for admiration, and this too from 
Cortlandt Glenthorne, the “ observed of all observ- 
ers,” and with this she was satisfied. 

From long neglect, the affairs of Colonel Eemsen 
now gave signs of serious embarrassment. With this 
old Mem was the first to become acquainted, from 


THE devil’s chimney. 


823 


tlie shifts to which he saw his master have frequent 
recourse, to raise the money necessary for the ordinary 
expenses of his family, and yet, so far from adopting 
any system of retrenchment, he seemed every day to 
launch out into greater extravagance. This was par- 
ticularly the case during the week of Jerusha Ann’s 
visit, when every day was turned into a festival. 

“ Wilful waste makes wofal want,” said Aunt Nep- 
py, shaking her head ruefully, “and all this waste 
for the da’hter of sich a man as Muckridge !” 

“ Times is changed, sure enough, Miss Nelpe,” 
chimed in Agamemnon, who was always careful to 
call Aunt Neppy by the name he had first known 
her by, “ when all these doins am for dat gal ; an’ 
’atween ourselves, an’ Miss Kelly here, I’m berry much 
afeared dey will get no better fas. 

‘Ho! ho! win’ blow! 

Who see com grow?” 


Mem was right. Things did go on from bad to 
worse, until it was found necessary to ask aid or ad- 
vice from some one, to deliver the Colonel from the 
difficulties in which he was involved. The man cho- 
sen for this purpose was Cortlandt Glenthorne. He had 
been the Colonel’s ward, and was now the accepted 
lover of his daughter, and he would certainly be the 
one to interest himself most warmly in the affair, when 
he knew that he had been made choice of by Winona 
herself. 

He came. An explanation was entered into. 


824 THE devil’s chimney. 

Some years before, the Colonel had been induced to 
join in a speculation, to work some mine or other, 
that must, in the short space of three years, make a 
return of five hundred percent. For this purpose he 
required ready money ; and, as he had none of his 
own, he raised the necessary sum of Muckridge, by 
giving a mortgage upon the best part of his estate. 
But, instead of the splendid return of five hundred 
per cent, in three years, in nine months the specula- 
tion was proven to be an utter failure. By this mis- 
adventure he was greatly annoyed ; but as Muck- 
ridge assured him that he was in no hurry for his 
money, and would be very well content to let it 
remain on interest for years to come, he allowed him- 
self to be lulled into a false security, and took no 
necessary steps for discharging the debt. 

It was about this time too that the difference I have 
spoken of arose between the Colonel and his wife ; 
and, in consequence of that difference, the affair of 
the loan from Muckridge, and of the mortgage given 
to secure the payment of it, was kept from the know- 
ledge of Mrs. Eemsen, who, so far from assisting him, 
by economical management, to cancel it, allowed 
things to take their usual course, and by her liberal 
expenditure, added greatly to the embarrassments of 
her husband, whose wild extravagance, by rendering 
him unable to pay off the interest, was hastening the 
ruin that he now deemed inevitable, for his creditor 
was becoming clamorous in his demands for payment, 
believing, perhaps, there was nothing further to be 
gained by delay. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


825 


XV. 

THE ANTICIPATION KEALIZED. 

Winona had watched, with intense interest, the 
looks of her lover, as he examined the papers which 
her father had left in his hands, and soon became 
alarmed at their deepening gloom. 

“ Tell me, Cortlandt,” she at length asked, “ are the 
affairs of my father as desperate as my fears would 
make them ?” 

“They are beyond redemption,” he answered, in a 
tone of unwonted harshness. 

“ Surely you cannot mean this ?” 

“ Indeed I do. The money originally borrowed of 
Muckridge, and for which your father gave him a lien 
upon the better part of his estate, was ten thousand 
dollars.” 

“ Was that all?” she asked, with a delighted look. 

“ All ?” said he sharply. “ And is not that 
enough ?” 

“ 0 yes, certainly enough,” she answered, evident- 
ly hurt by his manner, “ but much less than I feared. 
And as I have one half of it already, and the other 
half can be easily raised among our friends, I do not 
think we should look upon it as such a bugbear.” 

“ You the one half of it ?” 

“ 0 yes. Do you not remember the five thousand 
dollars left me by my grandfather Dupuy, and which 
is to become mine the day I am eighteen ?” 


826 


THE devil’s chimney. 


“ And that time is nearly three months off,” he 
answered drily. 

“^es, but three months will soon pass, and, in the 
meantime, we can exert ourselves to raise the rest 
among our friends.” 

“ Kather a precarious hope. One’s friends are not 
very ready now-a-days to show their friendship by 
lending money. But, Winona, you did not hear me 
out. The worst is yet to come.” 

Winona looked earnestly at him, but said nothing. 

“ The mortgage,” he continued, “ was, as I said, for 
ten thousand dollars. But that mortgage was granted 
many years ago, and has since been twice renewed ; 
and each renewal, by adding the unpaid interest to the 
principal, has made it heavier, until it now amounts 
to something like double the original sum ; and of 
this Muckridge demands immediate payment, or 
Mont Claire must be sold.” 

“ Mont Claire sold !” exclaimed Winona. “ 0 im- 
possible ! It would kill my poor mother outright. 
This must be prevented.” 

“ But how ?” 

“ By raising the sum necessary to pay off this 
debt.” 

“ My dear Winona, you speak of raising twenty 
thousand dollars, as if it were the easiest thing in the 
world. The money market, I am assured, never was 
in this country as tight as it is at present, and ” 

“ I know nothing of the money market,” she said 
impatiently, “ but I know where there is a will there 
is a way. My father, you tell me, is indebted to this 


THE devil’s chimney. 


827 


Muckridge twenty thousand dollars; and justly, I 
suppose. For the payment of this sum, a property, 
worth at least three times the amount, is to be sacri- 
ficed, because there is no one who will come forward 
to prevent it. Cortlandt Grlenthorne, you can save 
my father ; and, if you have any regard for his daugh- 
ter, you must,” and ,she rose and walked the room. 

“ Can you doubt that regard ?” he asked ; “ that 
love which has become a part of my very existence ?” 

“ I should indeed be sorry to,” she answered in a 
more subdued tone, and returning to her seat, “for 
upon a belief in that have I founded my hopes of 
future happiness. But the happiness of my parents 
is dearer to me than my own ; and, unless you can 
aid in securing theirs, you must destroy mine.” 

“ But how can I do that ?” 

“Without much difficulty, I think. You are 
known to have a iiandsome, unincumbered pro- 
perty.” 

“ Handsome, certainly, but not as unincumbered 
as you suppose. My late improvements have cost me 
a great deal of money, indeed all I had at command, 
and a little more, for which I have had to become 
obliged to a friend.” 

“Well, at any rate, you have that knowledge of 
business which my poor father unfortunately has 
never had ; and by proper management, by a fair 
representation, I mean, of things as they are, you can 
obtain among your friends, in loans for two, three, 
or four years, sufficient to cancel this mortgage, and, 
to secure to them the repayment of the money thus 


828 


THE DEVIL^S CHIMNEY. 


advanced, other mortgages can be executed in favor 
of the lenders. And, until these are paid off, my fa- 
ther can do without his carriage and horses, and the 
number of people he has now about him ; and, let- 
ting Mont Claire to a good tenant, we can go, like 
many other persons of small means, and take board 
in some quiet place upon my five thousand.” 

“ Your plan is certainly a good one, if it could only 
be properly carried out. But, even if I could raise the 
money among my friends, which I very much doubt, 
it would be impossible for you to lead the life you 
propose. Indulgences, to one brought up as your 
mother has been, are as necessary as the air she 
breathes, and the unfortunate habits of the Colo- 
nel ” 

“You forget, sir, that you are speaking to his 
daughter,” said Winona, reprovingly. Then rising, 
she added, with a degree of hauteur she was seldom 
known to assume, “But we will pursue this subject 
no farther. No service can be accepted by any of 
my family, that is not rendered willingly.” And, 
with a burning cheek and stately mien, she walked 
out of the room. 

She passed into the parlor, where her father was 
sitting, in a fit of gloomy abstraction, his head rest- 
ing upon his hand. He looked up as she ap- 
proached. 

“Well?” he questioned, in a hesitating, nervous 
manner. 

“ I fear, sir,” said Winona, with a show of calm- 
ness that she did not feel, “it will not be in our 


THE devil’s chimney. 


829 


power to meet the demands of Muckridge^ without a 
sale of this estate.” 

“ And render you a beggar !” he exclaimed. “ Oh ! 
my poor, poor girl ! what misery has the folly of your 
father brought upon you !” and covering his face with 
his hands, he wept like a child. 

“ Yet not so bad as that, after all,” he added, in a 
few minutes, with forced calmness. “ You, at least, 
are provided for. Cortlandt has a pleasant home to 
take you to, when this shall be gone. 

“ No, my father,” she answered, throwing her arms 
around his neck, and kissing him as she used in her 
more girlish days. “ Your home shall be mine, where* 
ever it is. And if we lose this, we will together seek 
happiness in some humbler one.” 


XVI. 

A GOOD SPIRIT EVOKED. 

As I have said, the affair of the mortgage had been 
kept from the knowledge of Mrs. Kemsen by her 
husband, and the first intimation she received of it 
was from Winona, who thought no one could break 
it to her mother as gently as she could. But, with 
all her gentleness in the execution of her mission, the 
efiect produced by her information, was, for a few 
moments, truly alarming. Mrs. Kemsen had been for 
some days ill, and her nerves, which had been greatly 


830 


THE devil’s chimney. 


shaken of late, were in a state easily to be acted upon, 
and this news, so unexpected, and so painful in its 
nature, brought on one of those violent fits of hyste- 
rics to which she had unfortunately become too sub- 
ject. But this passed off, after a plentiful shower of 
tears, and a calm succeeded. 

“ Oh ! Nony I ISTony !” she then said, “ why did your 
father keep this from me ?” 

“My dear mother,” returned Winona, caressingly, 
“ it was kindly meant.” 

“ Kindly meant, perhaps, but not wisely done. I 
knew he was somehow mixed up in that foolish spe- 
culation, which brought so much misery upon some 
very worthy people twelve or fifteen years ago, but, 
as he never complained of any loss by it, I thought 
no loss had been sustained, and did not trouble my- 
self any further about it. But I should have known 
there was something wrong, when a man like Colonel 
Eemsen, not only stooped to a show of intimacy with 
such a creature as Muckridge, but could suffer you, 
my child, to submit to a companionship with Muck- 
ridge’s daughter. Had he but given me his confidence, 
past humiliation and present suffering might have 
been avoided.” 

“ Dear mother,” asked Winona, timidly, “ did my 
father ever deny you his confidence, or did he only 
keep from you that which you never sought ?” 

“ Do you think, girl,” asked Mrs. Eemsen, sharply 
in return, “ I could have hogged it of him ?” 

“ Certainly not, mother; but you could have won 
it from him.” 


THE devil’s chimney. 


331 


Perhaps I might,” said Mrs. Kemsen, after a pans© 
of a few moments, and speaking to herself rather 
than to her daughter. “ For the estrangement that 
has, unfortunately, grown up between us, I may have 
been as much to blame as he. This is something I 
have never thought of. But,” she added, rousing her- 
self, “ this is a time for action, not for vain regrets. 
Something must be done to save your father’s credit, 
and to save Mont Claire.” 

“ 0 that something could be done !” exclaimed poor 
Winona, clasping her hands. “But what can? 
Cortlandt Grlenthorne ” — she hesitated. 

“ What has he proposed ?” asked her mother 
quickly. 

“ Nothing.” 

“ That was easily done. Well, when no one will 
help us, we must try to help ourselves. I think the 
daughter of Bend Dupuy may still find some friends 
among those who knew her father. I will try, at any 
^ rate, if there be any such in New York.” 

“ And what then, mother ?” 

“ Why, I will see if their friendship will not pro- 
vide me with the means to pay off this mortgage you 
speak of.” 

“But, mother, it is for nearly twenty thousand 
dollars,” said Winona. 

“ And Mont Claire is worth more than thrice twen- 
ty thousand dollars. Shall we see our beautiful home 
fall into the hands of this upstart Muckridge, sooner 
than make an effort, and perhaps a little sacrifice of 
pride, to save it? No, my child, no. You do not 


832 


THE devil’s chimney. 


know your mother, if you think she would shrink 
from anything, not disgraceful, to save those she 
loves from ruin.” 

The spirit of her nation was stirred in the heart of 
the Frenchwoman, and her excited feelings now 
vented themselves in, what Americans would call, a 
slight fit of heroics. 

“I will get myself ready at once,” she resumed, 
“and go down to New-York in the first boat that 
passes, which will be in about two hours.” 

“ But you are ill, mother, and need some one who 
will attend to your comforts,” urged Winona. “Let 
me go with you.” 

“ No, my dear, your father needs your care more 
than I do. Look closely to him, my love, for as I 
must take Mem, he will require some one near him 
who will not neglect him for a moment. Ellen will 
be of more service to me, at present, than you, so 
send her to me, that I may give her some directions.” 

I obeyed her summons, and received her orders. 
My preparations were easily made ; and I then re- 
turned to assist Winona in putting up what was neces- 
sary for one of Mrs. Remsen’s usual habits and 
present health. While doing this, Mrs. Remsen said 
to me, 

“Did you not tell me, Ellen, that the lad Nagle, 
who left here many years ago, and whom Colonel 
Remsen recommended to his cousin Van Wyck, has 
risen to considerable distinction in his profession, and 
succeeded to the old gentleman’s business?” 

“ I did, ma’am.” 


TtTE devil’s CHIMN’EY. 833 

* Well, I’ve been thinking, Ellen, that this young 
man might be of great service to us, in the business 
we are going upon. I do not mean in the way of 
advancing the sum I require, that, of course, he 
cannot do of himself, but in giving us advice how to 
proceed in the matter. Of this I cannot be expected 
to know much, and you, my good Ellen, I do not think 
can know a great deal more.” 

“Indeed, ma’am, of such matters I know nothing; 
and, though I have not seen Florence Nagle for more 
than twelve years, yet from his letters, if his hand 
does not belie his heart, I think I know him as well 
as if we met every day in the week, and, if he can 
serve you, I am sure he will. That he can serve you 
I have not the least doubt.” 

In one hour after, we were on board of one of the 
“ floating palaces ” of that day — how unlike the same 
class of vessels of the present time-— and steaming 
our way down the Hudson. 


XVIL 

CHAlfGE* 

Except for a fe^ hours, just before the close of 
the river, the first season I was with the Remsens, 
when I was enabled to redeem my promise of the 
doll to Jerusha Ann, I had not been in New York 
since the time I was ordered out of it by Dr. Morton, 


834 


TSE devil’s chimney. 


and, as soon as I had got Mrs. Eemsen comfortably 
situated for the night, in the City Hotel, then the Ho- 
tel of the city, I ran out, to give my old friends, 
Oonah Gillespie, and her daughter Rose, what I be- 
lieved would be an agreeable surprise. But, bless 
your heart ! I might have looked until this time, 
without finding the house I Was in search of, although 
I thought I could go straight to it with my eyes shut. 
Kot a vestige of it remained, nor of the row of neat 
wooden houses to which it belonged, but, in their 
stead, were towering brick buildings, that could only 
be occupied by persons of princely fortunes. 

While I stood, in doubt which way to turn, a little 
boy passed, and, accosting the child, I asked if he 
could direct me to Harman street. 

“ Harman street,” he repeated. “ Harman street. 
I guess, ma’am, there an’t any such street in the city. 
At least. I’ve never heard tell of it.” 

“ Indeed ! Can you tell me, then, what street this 
is ?” 

“ 0 yes, ma’am. This is East Broadway.” 

“ East Broadway,” I said to myself “ There was 
no such street in my time. Well, as everything else 
changes, why should not names change too ? This, 
after all, may be the street I wished to find. Do you 
know any one, my little fellow,” I continued, addres- 
sing the boy, “ by the name of Kolan in this neigh- 
borhood ?” 

“ Do you mean the Alderman ?” 

“ Ho, my dear. The man I mean used to keep a 
grocery.” 


THE devil's chimney. 


335 


“ I don’t know, ma’am, whether he ever kept a gro- 
cery, though may be he did -but he’s now in busi- 
ness in South street. This is the Alderman’s house, 
ma’am, just where we’re a standing.” And so saying, 
the boy passed on. 

The house before which I stood was a very hand- 
some one ; — too handsome, I thought, to be the resi- 
dence of the James Nolan I had left doing a small 
business, in a small house, in a poor neighborhood ; 
yet, by the light of a very large lamp that stood in 
front of it, I could plainly read the name of “James 
Nolan ” engraved on a handsome brass plate on the 
door. At any rate, if not the James Nolan I was 
in search of, he might be able to tell me something 
about him, so, plucking up a spirit, I mounted the 
broad stone steps, and rang at the door. 

A smart female servant answered my ring. 

“ I am looking,” said I, “ for a Mr. Nolan, who 
married the daughter of a Mrs. Gillespie, about four- 
teen or fifteen years ago.” 

“ The Alderman’s not in,” said the girl, “ neither 
is Mrs. Nolan, but the old lady is. Just step into 
the back parlor, if you please, and I’ll call her.” 

I did as she desired ; but even before the old lady 
made her appearance, my doubts were dispelled, for, 
in a heavy gilt frame over the marble mantel-piece, 
was the portrait of a lady, clothed in silk, and wear 
ing around her neck a thick gold chain, in whose 
broad, good-humored face, I recognized at once the 
features of my kind old friend, Oonah Gillespie. 
Here was a change, indeed. But it was only in ex- 


838 


THE devil’s chimney. 


ternals ; for there was no change, as I soon learned, 
in the affectionate nature either of Oonah or her 
daughter Rose, notwithstanding the wonderful change 
which a lucky speculation— wisely improved — of the 
husband of the latter had made in their fortunes. 
Heaven bless their kind and honest hearts I the un- 
changeable goodness of two such creatures as these, 
might well atone for the selfishness of a whole gene- 
ration of Muckridges and Sheehans. 


XVIII. 

AN OLD FRIEND. 

The next morning, before it was time for Mrs. 
Remsen to call upon her friends, I went out to seek 
Florence Nagle, whom I found occupying very hand- 
some rooms in Wall street. I had expected to find 
him changed ; but certainly was not prepared for the 
change that time had wrought in him since last we 
met. He was then a slight, delicate, and extremely 
shy lad, whose manner, among strangers, was scarcely 
one degree removed from downright awkwardness. 
The gentleman who had risen upon my entrance, was 
rather above the middle height and well proportioned, 
and though his face could boast but little color, its 
paleness was rather that of thought than of ill health, 
while his manner had the ease of one who had 
mingled freely with the best society. The Florence 


THE devil’s CHIMHEY. * 887 

of Stony Bottom was young when we parted, and 
looked even younger than he was, while the gentle- 
man before me, who could not have been more than 
thirty, might easily have passed for forty at the least, 
owing, probably, to the loss of the hair that used to 
shade his temples. 

He rose from a desk at which he had been writing 
when I entered, and advanced a step or two to meet 
me, thinking, no doubt, it was some new client who 
had come to pay him this early visit. But the step 
of courtesy was changed to a sudden spring, when, 
looking up into his face, I called him by name. 

“ Ellen,” he exclaimed, taking my extended hand 
in both of his, my wise and true friend, how glad 
I am to see you I” 

Then hurrying me into an inner room, out of sight 
and hearing of his clerks, and seating me in a well- 
stuffed chair, sat himself immediately in front of me, 
and looked in my face with an expression of the sin- 
cerest pleasure. 

“ My dear Ellen,” said he at length, “ how well you 
are looking.” 

“ And you,” said I. “I little expected, when you 
left Stony Bottom, to see you the man you are now.” 

“Ah, I was then suffering from that worst of dis- 
eases — sickness of the heart; and to your prescription, 
under Heaven, my dear friend, I owe my cure. Had 
it not been for your advice, the talents, which I was, 
even then, conscious of possessing, would have been 
frittered away, in pursuit of an object not easy of 
attainment in this work-a-day world — literary distinc- 
15 


888 ^ THE devil’s chimney. 

tion, iTTitil blighted hopes and broken health should 
produce their natural result — self abandonment — 
when the poor useless dreamer would be glad to find 
rest even in a nameless grave.” 

“ Then you have abandoned literature ? ” I said. 

“ Not at all,” he answered. “ But, instead of an 
end, I regard it now only as a means ; for, though an 
excellent cane, as has been happily said, it makes 
rather a poor crutch. It is still rny . companion in so- 
litude and my comforter in affliction, and that day 
must be a busy one indeed, of which I cannot spare 
half an hour to the study of a favorite author, or in 
giving vent, through the medium of verse, to the 
thoughts and feelings that accompany me to my 
chamber, when I have left behind the cares and 
anxieties of the day. Truly may I say of literature, 
as Coleridge has said of poetry, that it ‘ has been to 
me its own exceeding great reward,’ and the love of 
it has been the one star in the heaven of my exis- 
tence, which no cloud has ever yet been able to ob- 
scure.” 

“ A little of the old spirit left, I find,” said I, 
laughing. “Yet there is another star, Florence, 
which, it seems to me, must even outshine this love 
of literature you speak of.” 

“ And that is ” 

“ Keligion, or, if you will, the Love of God and 
of your neighbor.” 

“ Do not mistake me, Ellen,” he answered gravely. 
“ If literature has been the star, religion has been the 
Sun of my existence; — filling with light the tangled 


THE devil’s chimney. 


339 


path of this world. Let me explain. When I first 
came to the city, though I had a large stock of reli- 
gion — in theory, I had not a particle of it in practice ; 
and in this state I remained for many months, losing, 
little by little, my theoretical religion, as I sank under 
the pressure of difficulties incidental to my situation, 
until a gloomy, unhoping scepticism entirely took 
possession of my heart. About this time I was taken 
ill ; and as the small weekly stipend allowed me by 
Mr. Van Wyck was barely sufficient for my mainte- 
nance in health, and as I had no right to expect the 
continuance of it when I was no longer in a condition 
to earn it, with no prospect but certain destitution, 
and, perhaps, death by starvation before me, my scep- 
ticism changed rapidly into downright unbelief, and 
in my madness, I blasphemed against the Providence 
of God. 

“ My landlady was a poor, hard-working Irish wo- 
man, who made no pretensions to sentiment ; but was 
not without the kindness natural to her sex ; and 
pitying the loneliness of the poor sick boy in the 
garret, to whom she could devote but a few moments 
at a time, she often sent her little daughter to sit by 
me, and attend to my wants ; and who, in the kindness 
of her innocent heart, would, when I was unable to 
sleep, endeavor to amuse me by the relation of the 
pleasant little fictions that had afforded so much pleas- 
ure to herself. Among these was one which, for the 
beneficial effect it had upon my desponding heart, I 
shall ever remember with gratitude. It is a simple 
thing; but, if you have no objection, I will read it 


840 


THE devil’s chimney. 


to you.” So saying, he took from a drawer a neatly* 
folded manuscript, and, in a low earnest tone, read 

“A tale of childisli trust in God, 

’Mid want and misery.” 

“ This little story,” continued Florence, “ told by a 
child, had an effect upon me that the best written 
sermons had long failed to produce, and filled me 
with shame and compunction, for my guilty mistrust 
of the watchful care of Him who disregards not the 
fall of a sparrow, and earnestly did I pray to be re* 
lieved from the desolating spirit of doubt that had too 
long held possession of my heart. My prayer was 
heard ; for, as if to confirm me in my resolution, of 
henceforth submitting myself to the Divine Will, I 
was that very day sought out by Mr. Van Wyck, who 
provided me with a physician and nurse, and every 
comfort necessary to one in my feeble state, and I was 
left no more to brood in solitude over a condition, 
which a vivid, but unregulated imagination, had 
brought me to regard as unprecedented in misery. 
I rose from my sick bed an altered being; and, by 
the aid of Heaven’s grace, have ever since kept the 
path which I then resolved to tread. ” 


THE devil’s chimney. 


341 


XIX. 

AN ALARM. 

I NOW related to him the business on which I had 
come, and detailed, as minutely as my information 
would admit, every circumstance relating to the mort- 
gage, with which, however, he seemed to be pretty 
well acquainted, having made for Muckridge a fair 
copy of the original. 

“You see,” I continued, “how matters stand. 
Twenty thousand dollars must be raised at once, or 
the beautiful estate of Colonel Remsen will be sold at 
public auction, to the ruin of his family, and, I much 
fear, the certain destruction of him, for such is the 
state of his mind at present, that any new excitement 
can hardly fail to drive him into madness. Mrs. Rem- 
sen has come to town to try, among the friends of her 
father, some of whom are merchants of high standing, 
to raise this money, for the re-payment of Avhich a 
claim upon Mont Claire will be given for security. 
How is she to proceed ?” 

“ By keeping from those friends all knowledge of 
this business,” he answered. 

“I don’t understand 3^ou.” 

“ Merchants, my good Ellen, notwithstanding their 
apparent means, never, or rarely, at any rate, have 
more money than the exigencies of business keep in 
constant demand, and such a thing as investing their 


842 


THE devil’s chimney. 


capital in a speculation of this kind, could not be 
thought of for a moment.” 

“ But this is not a speculation.” 

“ So much the worse ; for, in that case, there can be 
no hope of the cent, per cent, profit they might ulti- 
mately reap. But do not be cast down. In dis- 
couraging Mrs. Kemsen’s application to her merchant 
friends, I do not mean to say, that the money can- 
not be raised from other sources. Indeed I think, 
nay, am sure, it can, and without Mrs. Remsen 
appearing in the matter at all, if she will only leave 
the management of it entirely to me.” 

If she will ? My dear Florence, she will be only 
too glad to do so.” 

“Well, then, to enable me to go to work under- 
standingly in the business, it is necessary I should 
make my long purposed visit to Stony Bottom, to 
examine thoroughly into Colonel Remsen’s title to the 
Mont Claire property. When do you return ?” 

“ Why, as Mrs. Remsen must have some visits to 
make, of course, and I wish to spend one day, at 
least, with the friends of my girlhood, I do not think 
we can get away before the day after to-morrow.” 

“ That will do. Go in the evening boat, and I will 
accompany you.” 

We went in the evening boat, as arranged, but, 
owing to some derangement of the machinery, which 
obliged us to lay to for nearly three hours, did not 
reach Stony Bottom Landing until near midnight, 
when, as the distance was little more than a mile, and 
the weather particularly fine, Mrs. Remsen, who ap- 


THE devil’s chimney. 


843 


peared in better spirits than I had ever seen her, pro- 
posed that, instead of sending Mem for the carriage, 
we should walk up to Mont Claire. And taking the 
arm of Florence, she set out to lead the way. 

As we were so much beyond the time at which 
we should have arrived, I expected to find the family 
buried in silence and darkness. But, instead of this, 
I noticed, as we approached the house, signs of great 
confusion. The hall door was standing open, and 
persons, bearing lights, were rapidly passing through 
it in all directions. Aunt Neppy was the first we 
encountered upon entering. 

“ O Madam, Madam !” she exclaimed, wringing her 
hands, and weeping bitterly. “Master Schuy, the 
Colonel, Madam” — 

“ What of him ?” asked Mrs. Kemsen, in great 
alarm. 

“ O Madam, he’s gone !” 

“ Grone where ?” 

“ Clean off. Madam, clean off.” 

“ Gone ? Great Heaven ! Where’s Winona ?” 

“ Gone too. Madam 1 Gone too I” 

“ Speak intelligibly, woman,” said Mrs. Remsen, in 
a paroxysm of terror and alarm. “ Where are they 
gone ?” 

“ Ah, Madam, I don’t know,” answered Aunt Nep- 
py, sobbing hysterically. “ The Colonel ha’nt been 
himself since you went away ; and poor Nony has 
been with him all the time, day and night. About 
two or three hours ago, while I was trying to make 
the dear child take a nice cup o’ tea, that I had made 


844 


THE DEVIL^S CHIMNEY. 


for her, with a very thin slice of toast, buttered on 
both sides, jist as she likes it, he started suddenly 
from the sofy where he’d bin a-lyin’, and rushed out 
o’ the back door, and Nony arter him. WeVe 
hunted all over for them ever since, but can’t find 
nyther of them, high nor low.” 

“O Lod, 0 Lod!” exclaimed Agamemnon, rolling 
up the whites of his eyes, and turning almost pale, 
De DehiVs Ghirnhy ! De DehiVs Chimley 

‘‘ What do you mean?” I asked, as Florence bore 
Mrs. Remsen, who had fainted, into one of the par- 
lors. 

“ O Miss Nelly,” he answered, his teeth chattering 
all the while, “ I’ve often heerd Mas’er, when he wa’nt 
’zactly hisself, say, if he wanted to take a jump into 
t’oder wurl, he didn’t know no place so good to start 
from as de Debit’s Chimley, an’ I tink him gone dar 
for to try it.” 

But, before we follow the fugitives, it is necessary 
I should give some account of what had happened in 
our absence. 


XX. 

IMPEKTINENCE AND DESPONDENCY. 

The evening after we left for New York, Barney 
Sheehan came to Mont Claire, and spent half an hour 
or so with Laura Burdock, who, probably, was in- 
formed of the object of Mrs. Eemsen’s visit, for early 


THE devil’s chimney. 


845 


next day, the attorney of Muckridge called, and made 
a formal demand upon the Colonel for the payment 
of the money due his client, adding thereto a threat, 
‘that, if the sum named was not immediately forth- 
coming, the law against the debtor should be put in 
force that very day. The Colonel, from the time that 
the opinion of Cortlandt Glenthorne had been made 
known to him — that Mont Claire could not be saved 
— had sunk into utter hopelessness, and all the efforts 
of Winona, to beguile him into momentary forgetful- 
ness of the coming evil over which he brooded, were 
entirely unavailing^ until she gave up, as impracti- 
cable, every attempt at drawing him into conversa- 
tion. But if she failed to rouse him, not so was it 
with the attorney ; for scarce had he declared the pur- 
pose of his visit, than the sullen gloom of the Colonel 
was turned into maniacal fury, and, only for the inter- 
ference of his daughter, he would have thrust, with 
very little ceremony, the man of law out of his 
house. 

This frenzy, however, did not last long, and the 
gloom that followed was even more impenetrable than 
that which had preceded it ; and thus he remained 
for the entire of that day and night, without tasting 
food, dr closing his eyes for a moment in sleep, 
though frequently importuned by Winona and Aunt 
Neppy — one or the other of whom was with him all 
the time — to do both. 

Towards noon of the second day, he became ex- 
tremely restless, — walking almost incessantly back- 
wards and forwards, only stopping for a moment to 
lb* 


846 


THE devil’s chimney. 

look out of a window, or pausing at the door, as if 
he intended to go out, and uttering now and then 
words and sentences that conveyed no meaning to 
the mind of the hearer. It was evident that the 
senses of the Colonel had begun to wander, and 
Winona, becoming alarmed, requested Aunt Neppy 
to send Laura Burdock in to keep her company. 
But Laura Burdock was nowhere to be found ; 
and it was soon ascertained, from one of the ser- 
vants, that Laura had left the house early in the day, 
with the avowed intention of taking up her abode 
with Miss Jerusha Ann Muckridge, a fact that, in 
the course of the evening, was corroborated by the 
following letter, addressed to “ Miss Eernsen,” and 
dated at “ Eimini,” the name given to the place 
that Muckridge had lately purchased, about half 
a mile to the east of Stony Bottom : 


“ Jfa chere Winona : You cannot think the pucker I have been in, 
ever since 1 heard Mr. Glenthorne and pa speaking last evening, 
at the tea-table, of the probable sale of Mont Claire. Dear, sweet 
Mont Claire, in which 1 have passed so many delightful hours, to 
think of that being put up at auction, and knocked down, like a 
lot of old rubbish! Oh! vraiment, ma chere, it is too shocking! 
and my heart really bleeds, when I think of your distress, ma 
mignonne, at giving up your sweet little room, with its rose-colored 
furniture, of your amiable mamma’s, in being obliged to take her 
tea out of a common cup, instead of her beautiful Sevres, and your 
estimable, but unfortunate, pa’s, in being compelled, perhaps, to 
blacken his own boots ! Mais, entre notxs, I have a little offer to 
make, that I hope will smooth down some of the difficulties in your 
way. Mon cher papa has kindly given up to me in this new house 
of ours — and a very beautiful h use it is, I assure you — three hand- 
some rooms overlooking the river. One of these I call m}- bem- 


347 


THE devil’s chimney. 

doir, in which you will find my favorite authors, and a few choice 
plants, that Mr. Glenthorne has been so kind as to present me 
'with ; the second is my dressing room, and the third my bedroom, and 
all three have blue furniture, because you know, my dear, that blue 
is said to become me exceedingly. But, besides these three rooms, 
there are two others that I may call my own, only one of which 
malheureusement / has a window, and that, quite as unfortunately, I 
have promised to Miss Laiira Burdock, who, unwilling to put up 
with the impertinence of my old nurse, Ellen O’Donnell, has deter- 
mined upon abandoning, for good and all, the home of her child- 
hood, and coming to abide with me. N'importe, 1 still have the 
room without the window at my command, and I think, when the 
family is broken up, you will find it much pleasanter than one in a 
common boarding-house, and you will, by accepting it, render so 
happy V. 

“Your ever true friend, 

“J. A. Muckridge.” 


The malice of this letter was not as well hidden 
as the writer intended ; but it fell unheeded upon the 
heart of poor Winona, which was already too full of 
anxiety for her father to afford room for any minor 
grief. One thing only in it gave her pain, and that 
but for a moment. The circumstance named of 
Cortlandt Glenthorne quietly discussing, at the tea- 
table of Muckridge, the probable ruin of the father of 
his betrothed, while she — the betrothed — was doing all 
in her power to ward off the blow that was likely to 
unseat the reason of her father. Tears of indignation 
sprang to her eyes, but dashing them off, she ex- 
claimed, with excusable pride, 

“ He that could desert me now, is not worthy of 
me. From this hour, Cortlandt Glenthorne, our 
paths lie asunder.” 


f 


848 


THE devil’s chimney. 


“ What of Cortlandt ?” asked her father, for Wino- 
na had unconsciously spoken the last words aloud. 
“Does he say there is no help ?” 

“ No, dear father, no. But help will come.” 

“ Whence, girl, whence ? When the earth is frozen 
hard, we look to the sun and the soft breath of spring 
to loosen its chains ; when it is parched by the heat 
of summer, we look to the clouds to refresh it. My 
heart is frozen ; — but where is the sun or the breeze 
to warm and to soften it ? And O, my brain is drier 
than the parched earth in summer, yet there is no 
cloud in the heavens to drop its moisture upon it!” 

“Dear, dear father I He who gives the sun, and 
the breeze, and the shower, to warm, to soften, and 
refresh the earth, will surely not leave us unaided in 
our difficulties. Let us only ask help of Him, and 
He will grant it.” 

“ But how will you ask it?” he demanded. “ You 
know no prayers but your mother’s. Will He hear 
them ?” 

“Any prayer, father,” she answered, “that truly 
comes from the heart.” And kneeling by the sofa, 
on which he had then thrown himself, she breathed 
forth a short and simple prayer, that seemed to fall 
with soothing effect upon the disordered mind of the 
sufferer, for in a few moments he sank quietly to 
sleep. 


THE devil’s chimney. 


349 


XXL 

THE MANIAC. 

The sleep of the Colonel was short ; and, unfortu- 
nately, Winona was absent when he awoke from it, 
having been prevailed upon by Aunt Neppy to go 
into the adjoining room for a cup of tea ; and when 
she returned he was gone. Immediately giving the 
alarm, she rushed out after him; but, before the 
servants could be made by poor Aunt Neppy to 
understand what had happened, father and daughter 
had both disappeared. Winona, by finding open a 
door that led into the garden, had easily divined the 
path her father had taken, and by pursuing with a 
rapid step, overtook him just as he had got fairly out 
upon the northern road; while those sent out by 
Aunt Neppy went altogether in a different direction, 
and left the poor girl entirely unassisted. 

“ Father,” said she, with as much calmness as she 
could command, for, besides being greatly frightened, 
she was almost out of breath, “ you have forgotten 
your hat. Let us return and get it.” 

“No, no,” said he, “I want no hat. My head is 
hot — burning hot — what should I do with a hat? I 
could not bear it. It would crush me with its 
weight.” 

“ But, father,” she pleaded, “ the air is chilly, and 
I am without a shawl. You know I cannot walk out 


850 


THE devil’s chimney. 


in tlie evening without a shawl, or even a bonnet. 
Will you not go back with me for my bonnet and 
shawl?” 

‘‘Poor toad! poor toad! I am very sorry you 
are so cold. But come closer to me, my darling,” and 
putting his arm around her, he drew her "close to his 
side, “and let us walk fast, and you will soon be 
warm enough,” and he set out almost upon a run. 

“ O father,” she cried, “ do not walk so fast. I can- 
not keep up with you.” 

“Well, I will not hurry it, the dear lamb. I know 
they will be waiting for us; but let them wait. 
There is a gay company, Nony, my pet, to which we 
are invited. I did not tell you of this before, because 
I wanted to surprise you ; and you will be delighted 
with them, I know ; but they must wait our coming 
— and they will — so do not hurry yourself. All in 
good time, love, all in good time.” 

“ But if we are to go to this gay company, father, 
why do we not take the carriage ? How will it look 
for Colonel Remsen and his daughter to be going on 
foot ? Let us go back for the carriage.” 

“ Hush, child, hush. Do you not know that I have 
given away horses, carriage, house, and lands to Muck- 
ridge, the man who used to keep a store in Stony 
Bottom ? and next week I am going to learn to make 
baskets, like the mountaineers. Now what should a 
basket maker and his daughter do in a carriage ? 
It would be such affectation !” 

Thus talking, and hurrying his daughter forward, 
the Colonel pursued his course, while poor Winona, 


THE devil’s chimney. 


851 


upon whose mind the conviction had forced itself, 
that her father was indeed mad, listened in vain for 
any sound that would give her hope of assistance in 
restoring the maniac to his home. None came. *The 
night wore on, and as- the road, at all times an unfre- 
quented one, took them farther from Mont Claire, the 
\ chance of meeting any person on whom she could call 
for help grew every moment less, and the dwellers, in 
the few houses they passed, were sleeping too soundly 
to be roused by any outcry she could make. The 
night wore one; and the distance between, her and 
her home became every moment greater, and hope 
almost died in the heart of Winona, when, at the end 
of a three hours’ walk, she found herself at the base 
of the Devil’s Chimney. 

“ Now we have but to go to the top of this, girl,” said 
her father, “and then we are at ourjQurney’s end.” 

“O father!” said she, falling before him and 
clasping his knees, “ I cannot climb this ascent. Let 
us go home.” 

“Home? We have no home now but the home 
appointed for all living. Let us to it.” And 
snatching her up, as if she had been an infant, he 
began to make the ascent with her in his arms ; and 
she, with one short prayer for mercy, closed her eyes, 
and resigned herself to the fate that seemed inevitable. 


352 


THE devil’s chimney. 


XXII. 

THE PURSUIT AND RESCUE. 

Before it could have been thought possible for 
Mem to get to the stables, he was at the door, with a 
pair of the Colonel’s fleetest horses before a light 
wagon, in which he had thrown a quantity of hay 
and two or three blankets, and urged any one who 
had a mind to join him in pursuit of his master, to 
jump in at once, and let him be off. 

“ O Mem, Mem!” exclaimed AuntNeppy, clasping 
her hands, “how I wish I dars’t go wdth you! I’d go 
anywhere in the world for master Schuy and Winona, 
but I’m afeared of them horses.” 

“Well, stay you dar, you ’tarnal coward you,” 
answered Mem, in high anger, “ an’ all on you what’s 
afeared. Dis nigger kin go alone.” 

“ No, Mem,” said Florence, springing into the 
wagon. “ I’ll go with you.” 

“ And I too,” said I, holding up a hand to be as- 
sisted in, for I felt how much poor Winona would, at 
a time like this, require the presence of one of her 
own sex. 

“ Bless you for dat. Miss Nelly, bless you for dat,” 
said Mem, almost blubbering, as he placed me com- 
fortably in the wagon. “ You a’n’t like some old 
gals I knows on,” looking at Aunt Neppy, “dat’s 
afeared ob deir shadow. Go it now, my hearties,” he 


THE DEVIL^S CHIMNEY. 


85S 


continued, giving whip to the horses. “You musn’t 
let de grass grow under your feets dis night. Dat’s 
it ! dat’s it ! hooray !” And away we went at greater 
speed than I had ever travelled before upon land, 
but my confidence in the ability and carefulness of our 
driver, and intense anxiety for the fate of the fugi- 
tives, banished from my heart and mind every feeling 
and thought of fear. 

It was a calm, clear October night, and the moon, 
which was now about the full, gave us almost as dis- 
tinct a view of the objects around as if the sun had 
been shining upon them. But though we examined 
the road before us as far as our vision could stretch, 
no moving creatures appeared upon it, and I began to 
think that Mem had been mistaken in his conjecture, 
when, urging the horses forward, he shouted with 
frantic vehemence, 

“ Dar dey am I dar dey am ! 0 Lod, 0 Lod ! 

a’most to de berry top and he pointed to a tall dark 
object, about a quarter of a mile to our right, that did 
indeed, at that distance, very much resemble a chim- 
ney ; and after looking earnestly for a minute or two, 
I saw something moving towards the top. My 
feelings at the moment are not to be described. 
The point of destruction was almost reached ; and we, 
although so near, might, nay must be — when I 
thought of the difficulties of the ascent — too late to 
save the madman and his victim. My tongue was 
parched with the fever of fear, and, unable to arti- 
culate, I could only think a prayer. • 

But the terror of the moment magnified, as usual, 


854 


THE devil’s chimney. 


the dangers of it, imminent as they were. When we 
reached the base of the chimney, the Colonel, appa- 
rently almost exhausted, was yet some distance from 
the top, towards which he was toiling with his still 
insensible burthen, and the difficulties of the ascent 
were far less than I had anticipated, for the column, 
or rather bisected cone, was much larger at the base 
than the top, and while almost perpendicular from 
the river, was, as Aunt Neppy had very well ex- 
presssed it, “ slantin^icular” from the land, and, as 
Mem and Florence were both well acquainted with 
it in their boyish days, they now ascended it with 
ease, and even rapidity. 

I did not leave the wagon, for Mem, not waiting 
to secure the horses, had thrown me the reins, and 
I now sat watching their progress with intense anx- 
iety. Up and up they went, side by side, the strong 
affection of the old man enduing the limbs of age 
with the vigor and elasticity of youth, and my heart 
leaped up exultingly as I saw them gain upon the 
Colonel. But the odds were so terribly against them. 
He was already within a few feet of the top, and they 
certainly not more than half way up; and, if he 
should become aware of their pursuit, nothing but 
Divine interposition could prevent the intended sa- 
crifice. And he did, even as the thought passed 
through ray mind, become aware of it. In a moment’s 
pause he caught the sound of their approaching steps. 
He cast a, glance behind, and then sprang forward. 
The suqamit is almost gained, and they — great Hea- 
ven ! — are still even yards from it I I grew sick. I 


THE devil’s chimney. 855 

wislied to close my eyes to shut out the fearful scene 
- — but could not; my interest in it was too exciting. 
I started to my feet, and in a voice of agony urged 
on the pursuers. My cry reached the ears of the 
Colonel, and he redoubled his exertions. But his 
very efforts were against him. He has made a mis- 
step. He reels, and falls backwards, and is caught in 
the arms of old Mem ! Oh I Heaven be praised ! 

Passive as an infant the maniac, now utterly ex- 
hausted, was borne, rather than led, down to the 
wagon by the faithful old slave, and laid upon the 
hay, while Winona, whom he had unhesitatingly 
resigned to Florence, and who had begun to give signs 
of returning consciousness, was wrapped in one of 
the blankets, and placed by my side. Then Mem, 
leaving the care of our return to Florence, sitting at 
the bottom of the vehicle, supported the head of his 
master, while that of Winona rested upon my bosom ; 
and so, without one word of remark, or even of au- 
dible thanksgiving, we went slowly back to Mont 
Claire. 


XXIII. 

HAPPINESS RETUKNS WITH CONFIDENCE. 

In a few short days Winona was seen about the 
house as usual ; and, except that her cheek was pale, 
and her movements rather languid, no one would 
have supposed that anything out of the common order 


856 


THE devil’s chimney. 


of events had occurred to her. And even this pale- 
ness might very well have been, as I suppose it 
was, attributed to her attendance upon her father, 
whose temporary madness had been followed by so 
complete a prostration of his physical powers, that it 
was long doubted, by his medical attendants, whether 
they could ever again be made to rally, and at all 
times a constant watch at his bedside was kept either 
by Winona or her mother. 

“Sweet are the uses of adversity,” says one, who, 
seemed indeed to know “ all qualities with a learned 
spirit.” While in the enjoyment of blessings denied 
to nine-tenths of the human family, Mrs. Eemsen, 
with a perverseness peculiar to our fallen nature, had 
gone out of her way to seek occasions of unhappiness 
to herself and her family. She could hardly have been, 
at the time of her marriage, a stranger to the preju- 
dices of her husband ; prejudices natural to one who 
claimed descent from a people who had suffered se- 
verely for their adherence to the form of Christianity 
they had seen fit to adopt ; yet, instead of endeavor- 
ing to soften them by persuasion, to correct them by 
showing that, while persecution for conscience sake had 
been practised by professors of every creed, it is no part 
of the spirit of any, or, which would have been far bet- 
ter than either, to labor to destroy them by that most 
convincing of arguments — the example of a Christian 
life ; her readiness to resent any remark which she 
thought levelled at the peculiarities of her faith, and 
to defend every act, however unjustifiable, that had 
been done in its name, even while she lived in open 


THE EEVIL’s chimney. 


357 


neglect of all its precepts, only gave strength to the 
prejudices she so indiscreetly strove to combat, and 
almost alienated the heart which had at one time been 
all her own. There was also, as we have seen, an- 
other cause of estrangement between the husband and 
wife. When the difficulties into which he had in- 
volved himself first became embarrassing, the Colo- 
nel naturally looked for some friend to whom to con- 
fide the cause of his unhappiness. And where could 
he hope to find such a friend if not in his wife? But 
unhappily Mrs. Remsen, who could not have failed to 
perceive the change that had lately taken place in the 
manner of her husband, yet wholly ignorant of the 
cause, attributed it, perhaps naturally, to the decay of 
his affection, and instead of inviting confidence by a 
gracious demeanor, repelled it by the reserve in which 
she was pleased to shut herself up. Then who can 
wonder at the result ? But when poverty menaced 
her idolized daughter, and the husband of her youth 
seemed almost within the grasp of death, the reserve 
vanished, and the energies of her nature, of which 
even she was until then unconscious, sprang into ac- 
tivity, and the petted child of Fortune, the admired 
woman of fashion, the mere creature of convention- 
ality, rose at once into the woman of forethought, 
the affectionate wife, the kind, judicious, untiring 
nurse. “Sweet” indeed in her case had been “ the 
uses of adversity.” 

But the doubts long entertained, though not ex- 
pressed, by the medical men, began gradually to give 
place to hope, and what they believed to be the 


S58 


THE devil’s chimney. 


triumpli of skill over disease was shown in the in- 
creasing satisfaction with which they regarded their 
patient ; and the unspoken fear that had lain heavily 
upon the heart of the wife and daughter, was lifted, 
little by little, until genuine smiles took the place 
of the simulated ones upon their faded cheeks. 

“ Dearest Claire,” said the Colonel, one evening 
during his convalescence, “ how strangely we have 
misunderstood one another.” 

“We have, indeed, Schuyler; but will misunder- 
stand one another no longer. You must pardon the 
past, my husband, and I will endeavor, by my future 
conduct, to regain the love I so well deserved to lose 
forever,” returned his wife with an air of humility 
which, little as she was accustomed to it, really be- 
came her admirably. 

“Deserved to lose, Claire? Do not speak so re- 
proachfully. For all the unhappiness we have suf- 
fered in the past, I alone am to blame.” 

“Well, well,” said she smiling, and tenderly kiss- 
ing his forehead, “ we will divide the blame, and 
mutually endeavor to atone for it. You by withhold- 
ing nothing from your wife that can give you a mo- 
ment’s uneasiness to conceal, and I by showing the 
interest I must always feel in anything that may con- 
cern your happiness ; and thus, by uniting the broken 
link of confidence, we shall make strong the chain of 
affection that must ever bind us together.” 

From this time the health of the Colonel rapidly 
improved, and in a few weeks became thoroughly re- 
established. The evil habit from which so much of 


THE devil’s chimney. 


859 


his sufferings had proceeded, bj aggravating an acci- 
dental, not hereditary, mental infirmity, having been 
broken by his long illness, was n^ver after renewed, 
and his old age promises now to be as free from the 
ills “ that flesh is heir to,” as that of any other of 
my acquaintance. One great cause of this, however, 
is the ease in which it is likely to be passed. By the 
exertions of Florence, the money necessary to satisfy 
the claim of Muckridge against Mont Claire was 
raised, and by the course that he suggested, means 
were easily found to liquidate the debt thereby in- 
curred, for when husband and wife entered with one 
heart into the scheme of retrenchment, it was found 
easy of accomplishment, and, in much less time than 
even the most sanguine had supposed, the estate of 
Colonel Remsen was free from every incumbrance. 


XXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

“Well, things have turned out strangely, though, 
ha’nt they?” said Aunt Neppy to me one evening, 
about a year after my memorable ride to the “ Devil’s 
Chimney.” “ Who’d ha’ thought a year ago that 
Mickey Muckridge — Old Money Bags, as I used to 
call him — then so stout and consequential, would be 
dead in sich a little time ? Poor man ! I didn’t like 
him, to be sure, but, for all that, I was dreadfully 


860 


THE devil’s chimney. 


shocked at the death he got. Choked by a piece o’ 
meat at Kis own table I Do yon know, Nelly, some 
of them Irish in the village — I don’t mean any disre- 
spect to you, my dear— act’ally believe, ’twas a judg- 
ment upon him, for eating meat on Friday, when he 
called himself a Catholic ? But you don’t think so, 
I’m sure.” 

I have not thought upon the subject at all,” I 
answered. “Yet wiser people than them Irish might 
have come to the same conclusion. Muckridge was, 
unfortunately, one of a large class in this country, 
who profess to belong to a certain Church, and yet 
act in open defiance of her commands ; and He who 
holds the lives of His creatures in His hands, may 
have chosen this means for the punishment of diso- 
bedience — for disobedience, even in what is, appa- 
rently, so small a matter as eating that which is pro- 
hibited, is certainly a sin.” 

“Well, I declare,” said Aunt Neppy, “I never 
thought of it in that way afore. But who’d ever 
ha’ thought of Cortlandt Glenthorne, with his high 
notions, offerin’ himself to Muckridge’s da’hter? I 
shall never forgive him for such a piece o’ mean- 
ness.” 

“But remember. Aunt Neppy, before he did so, 
Winona had positively refused to have him.” 

“And right enough, too. When he found the 
poor gal adrift, didn’t he leave her to paddle ashore 
as well as she could, and when he seen she got 
safe to land, and no thanks to him, didn’t he then 
try to make it up with her ? If Nony hadn’t refused 


THE devil’s chimney. 


861 


him, I’d never ha’ forgiven her, that’s sartain. But 
Rushy Ann sarved him just right, after promisin’ 
to have him, to run off with that pretended Polish 
Count — what’s his name? — that she met at the 
Springs, but who turned out to be nothing but a black 
leg, arter all ?” 

“ Count Zkrtchmyzwt.” 

“ 0, yes. Count Scratchmyeyesout. That was the 
nicest trick I ever seen.” 

“ It was an unfortunate one for poor Jerusha Ann, 
I’m afraid. The handsome fortune left her by her 
father will soon be squandered by such a husband.” 

“Why, I don’t think her fortin’ was anything to 
boast on, arter all. You know, Kezi Potter, by 
bringin’ for’ard a certificate, showin’ that she was 
married to Muckridge years and years ago, proved her 
right to one-third o’ the property, and Rushy Ann, 
much to her credit, sooner than let the world know 
what an old fool her father was, gin it up to her. But, 
0 Nelly, my dear, what do you think they do say ?” 

“I have not the slightest idea.” 

“ Why, that Barney Shin is goin’ to be married to 
— who do you think ?” 

“Laura Burdock, perhaps.” 

“ 0, no. Poor Laura ! how disappinted she must 
feel, to be sure. But it sarves her jist right. Here 
she’d always been treated like one o’ the family, and 
jist for a little miff at you, because you happened to 
be a favorite, desarted her friends in their trouble. 
Why, he’s act’ally goin’ to be married to his brother’s 
widder — Kezi Potter I” 

16 


862 THE devil’s chimney. 

“ 0, impossible !” 

“May be so. But time ’ill show.” And time did 
show the report to be true. 

“ Do you think, Nelly,” resumed the old lady, after 
a silence of full five minutes, in which she had dili- 
gently plied her needles, “ that people can really love 
more than onct?” 

“ I think it possible,” I answered ; “ but as 1 have 
never loved at all, I am not a very good judge. 
Why do you ask ?” 

“ Why I use to think Nony very fond of that 
Cortlandt Glenthorne. ’Twas but nat’ral ! you know 
they were brought up children together; — and now 
she’s goin’ to be married to Florence Nagle.” 

“ She was fond of him, no doubt, and for the very 
reason you have named — because they were brought 
up children together ; and, if he had not divested 
‘himself of the high qualities with which her young 
fancy had endowed him, she might have gone on 
loving him to the end of her life. But when he ap- 
peared to her eyes as he really was, bold of heart and 
sordid of mind, the romance of affection was at an end, 
and with it the reality. Winona Kemsen was not 
one Jo love where she could not esteem, and Cortlandt 
Glenthorne ceased to be more to her than an ordinary 
^ acquaintance. Then, when she began to feel the void 
in her heart that Cortlandt Glenthorne had filled, 

■ came Florence, who, besides winning her gratitude 
for the zeal with which he had labored in her father’s 
^ervice, was the actual possessor of the qualities 
which she had supposed to belong to her early com- 


THE devil’s chimney. 


863 


panion, and his image was set up in place of that 
which had been cast out ; and so Florence Nagle — •' 
the self made man — becomes the husband of the love- 
liest girl, and — thanks to his exertions — likely to be 
one of the richest heiresses in her native State.” 

“ ’Tis all right, I dare say,” said Aunt Neppy, with 
a puzzled air, “ but seems a little odd, for all that, I 
must confess. But for one thing I’m sorry, that’s 
sartain; and that is, that Nony is goin’ away to York 
to live. I a’n’t as young now as I used to be,, and 
I’m very much afeared I shan’t see her again arter 
that.” 

“ Nonsense, Aunt Neppy. You will see her often. 
Of course she will every now and then visit Mont 
Claire ; and besides that, she will expect you to spend 
some time with her in the city, to see to the arrange- 
ments of her new house.” 

“ What, trust myself to go to the city in one of them 
boats ? Not for the univarse ! There’s one thing, 
however, that I don’t rightly understand yet,” she 
continued, after a considerable pause. “ How Master 
Schuy has made up his mind to go to Church with 
Madam and his da’hter so quietly as he does. I 
wonder what Mr. McClavers would say to it ?” 

“ It does not matter much what Mr. McClavers, or 
any of his kind, would say, who, after having tried 
every form of Protestantism, became a Catholic for 
three months, and is now a Jew. But I suppose the 
Colonel has come to the conclusion, that if, in the 
Church to which his wife and daughter belong, sal- 
vation is to be found for them, it may also be for 


864 


THE devil’s chimney. 


him. And I think he is right. But how comes it, 
Aunt Neppy, that you go to Church with them ?” 

“ Why, you know, my dear, the Church the Ca- • 
uholics have now is the one I have always been used 
to goin’ to ; and you wouldn’t expect me to leave 
rny own Church merely because the form of worship 
in it has been changed ?” 

This answer amused me a good deal, but when, a 
few years after, I saw in the memoir of an eminent 
statesman, just then deceased, a similar reason given 
for his joining in the religious observance of a people 
altogether different from those with whom he had at 
first united himself— that they occupied the Church 
he had attended from his youth up — I felt more re- 
spect for the simple reason given by Aunt Neppy. 
Poor Aunt Neppy! she did not long survive this 
conversation ; for, in her eagerness to get at the parti- 
culars of a “ Terrible Accident” which had lately 
happened, she would not wait to let the paper dry 
that contained them, and from that she took a cold 
that brought on an illness of which she died. Poor, 
kind Aunt Neppy ! 

Mem still lives ; and almost the first sound that 
greets my ears, on my visits with Mrs. Nagle to Mont 
Claire, is that of the well-remembered refrain^ 


Ho ! ho ! win’ blow ! 
Who see corn grow V 


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